


Amalgam: Book One

by br42



Series: Amalgam [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 76,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br42/pseuds/br42
Summary: The world of Amalgam is made of many things, mixed poorly and left to simmer.Several centuries ago, the hobs stole the secret of iron-working from the dwarves and carved for themselves an empire larger than any other. Slaves would be taught civilization and made into citizens, even if the lessons required the patience of generations to be learned properly. But some of the ruled remain unruly and the edges of the empire are fraying... all while conflicts older than iron smolder, ready to ignite anew.Bonnie Keogh is a caravan guard whose satisfaction is ever beyond the horizon. Batugei of the Daguur is a warrior looking to make sense of a senseless conflict. Vex is an unlikely scholar tired of setbacks and marginalization. Realgar Hematite is a priest whose prayers aren't answered by the god he expects. These four travelers from four different races will be the harbingers of things both great and terrible... but first they have to meet.Amalgam updates every Wednesday.
Series: Amalgam [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800940
Comments: 184
Kudos: 19





	1. The Rock (Bonnie's Past)

Maebh made it halfway to the rock before turning back, looking like she might hurl. Felim barely got a dozen paces out before he stopped, standing as if against an invisible wall. After about a minute of cheers and taunts from the others, he made it one more step forward before turning and running back. He didn't stop when he got to the group of six young halflings, though, the eleven-year-old sprinting down the dirt path back to home.

Lorcan looked uneasily between his cousin's retreating form and the others. "Are we going to get in trouble?" he asked, half-looking like he was about to run off himself.

Sinéad scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Felim's just a baby. And he knows if he tattles then Ciara will shove him in the midden heap when their mom leaves to milk the goats." Then she turned to face Lorcan directly. "Are you a baby too, Lorc?"

The steader lad swallowed nervously.

No one had spoken to Bonnie because, at nine-years-old, she was the youngest in the group, so who cared what she thought? The girl had hair the color of ripe wheat and green eyes that had been fixed on the distant rock pretty much since she'd arrived.

Before Lorcan managed an answer, Maebh gave a cry of alarm, four heads turning to follow her gaze.

Bonnie was sprinting for the rock.

In the background she heard someone say something joking followed by Sinéad shouting, "Woo! Go Bonnie!" but she barely noticed. Her heart was racing, the edges of her vision were going dark, and it felt like something heavy was sitting on her chest.

The rock was getting closer.

Between one step and another Bonnie felt a wave of panic sweep over her. Ballinack had been attacked once by dai-bakemonos. The town's last horse had been killed, Da's foot got hurt which was why he walked with a limp, and old Mister Ultán lost three fingers. Bonnie had been too young to remember, but the other kids --and several of the adults-- took great glee in telling ever-more grisly descriptions of the raid. She'd woken up screaming for weeks after, and the sensation rocking her now felt a lot like that.

 _You're not a baby!_ she mentally screamed at herself, her face screwed up in concentration as she forced herself to keep going.

The last week of her nightmares, when she'd woken up, it'd been with a scream of defiance, the monsters of her dreams shouted into submission. It was with a cry like that that Bonnie slapped the rock, vision swimming but the little halfling pumping her other hand skyward in triumph.

For a brief moment she started to scale the rock, planning to stand on top of the stead's outermost landmark so she could see the looks on the older kids' faces. However, she felt bile rising in her throat and, head pounding, she turned and ran back to the others.

With each step, the fear, shivers, and tightness in her chest eased.

"Téigh's tit, Bonnie!" exclaimed Maebh, "You're going to be a wanderer!"

For a second, Bonnie's shock at hearing the older girl swear banished everything else from her thoughts. Then the rest of her words filtered in and Bonnie hopped in excitement. "Yeah! Woo!"

Halflings came in two varieties: steaders never left their homestead and wanderers never stopped traveling. All halflings were born steaders but a few, when they got older, would start to feel the need to go, the boundaries around their home growing weaker by the day.

If you could slap the rock, you were going to be a wanderer. Bonnie was going to be a wanderer. She was going to leave Ballinack some day and she was going to see the entire rest of the world.

Before Bonnie could cheer any more, though, she made a noise like _hurp_ and then she puked up second breakfast all over Maebh's shoes.

Maebh shrieked. Sinéad laughed. Lorcan tried to help and then had to dive out of the way when Bonnie felt first breakfast come up too.

Bonnie was going to travel the world... but not today.


	2. Heavy Lifting

> _Máthair Mhór gathered together her ever-growing family of gods so that they could show her the mortals they'd created._
> 
> _Samhradh, Fómhar, Geimhreadh, and Earrach each presented their own kind of elf. The stern-faced Father of Stone trotted out the dwarves he'd forged. Fngri was awfully proud of his orcs even if they weren't the brightest. Máthair Mhór asked the hobs who created them but she couldn't understand their answer. Everyone claimed to have made the humans and no one would admit to making the bakemonos._
> 
> _Nammu's dragons had hatched their own worshipers, the kobolds. The carrow flew in from no-one-knew-where and started growing their corn. Magog had birthed two races but gotten hungry and eaten them. Under Máthair Mhór's disappointed stare, Magog fished some gristle out from between her teeth and made that into the gogs, an act which everyone instantly regretted._
> 
> _But then Fan and Téigh turned their kids loose and everyone knew they'd been beat. Fast as a human, wise as a dwarf, strong as an orc, smart as an elf and twice as agile, the wholelings were so great that all the other gods were driven to jealousy._
> 
> _To quell the family squabble, Máthair Mhór told Fan and Téigh they needed to cut their kids down to size. The two gods shared a wink and then did exactly as they were told, pressing the wholelings down like clay until they were half their former size. But Fan and Téigh had removed none of their children's graces, they’d merely packed them into a smaller frame. And thus the halflings were born._
> 
> _This did nothing to make their children stop overshadowing all the other mortals, it just meant that half the furniture in Creation would be built too tall for comfort._

\- Chapter One of _The Spiralist Commentaries_ , author unknown  


* * *

Despite a feral grin of excitement plastered on her face, Bonnie circled her opponent carefully. Opposite her was a six-foot-tall slab of orcish muscle named Batugei, while Bonnie only made it to three-and-a-half feet when she wore boots. She was convinced she was the better scrapper of the two, but her opponent had a huge reach advantage, so going in cocky would get her halfling ass well and truly kicked.

She couldn't let that happen: there was too much riding on this spar. The loser had to help unload the wagons once they got to Hirata and Bonnie would rather see the world burn than lug sacks of grain for that bitch Shona. Bonnie was a guard, godsdammit, not a stevedore!

Well, so was Batugei, but if someone had to haul grain, better it was him. The orc in question had skin a middle color between green and brown, with bright eyes and a great variety of beads woven into the black hair that ran down to his shoulders. A trim beard traced his jawline and usually framed a smile.

Batugei made a probe with the club he'd taken up for this fight but Bonnie danced back out of the way. They were in a clearing, weeds growing in clumps in the thin and rocky soil. Their battlefield was framed on three sides by covered wagons, the halflings in those wagons cheering them on because who didn't love free entertainment.

The horses --and one zebra-- seemed more interested in the weeds.

"Emptying the wagons will be worse with bruises," said Batugei in a deep, friendly tone. "Much better if you just concede." Then he flashed Bonnie a carnivore's smile and added, "I'll even let Sudal help you with the hauling since he is so very fond of you."

Hearing his name, the zebra looked up from his grazing and gave first Bonnie, then Batugei an unamused stare. The orcs bred their zebras to be large --they’d have to be to serve as mounts for the stocky, green warriors-- and Sudal was no exception. Batugei had woven beads to match his own into his zebra’s mane, and the sunlight was catching some of those just right to leave little spots in Bonnie’s vision when she glowered at the beast. Their first meeting had involved Sudal trying to eat Bonnie's hair while Bonnie kicked him in the ankle until he stopped. As such, the lie to Batugei’s statement of friendship was as clear as Sudal’s stripes.

The watching halflings made jeers of disapproval at this offer of peaceful resolution.

"Nope," answered Bonnie as she smacked the club aside with one of the short wooden rods she was using in place of her usual blades. "I've kicked asses as big as yours before-" -- _Even if I'd had the drop on them and not been fighting with fucking sticks,_ she very deliberately didn't add-- "-so I think I'll just do that instead." She turned and stuck her tongue out at Sudal for good measure.

Knowing that Batugei would want to get the last word in, Bonnie waited the span of two heartbeats then darted forward. She'd timed it right when Batugei was about to deliver his rejoinder and so the orc was an eyeblink too slow in raising his guard. Her left rod struck the orc square in the knee, and the right would have sliced his tendon if she'd been using a blade instead of a sparring rod. Then Bonnie spun around with a vicious grin on her face and brought the first rod straight up between his legs.

This was met with a muted _clonk_ instead of a groan of abject masculine distress, a fact which caused the halfling to stare upward in open-mouthed surprise.

"You're wearing a codp-" was as far as her exclamation got before she had to throw herself out of the way. She caught a clipped but painful cudgel blow for the delay.

The watching caravaneers were howling with amusement, Eithne almost choking on her trail biscuit while Shona slapped Séamus so hard on the shoulder he dropped his flask, alcohol dribbling out onto the ground. The old wagon driver had to muscle aside an inquisitive horse's muzzle as he tried to rescue his liquor. Even Deaglán was grinning, entertained despite having little appetite for violence.

A short chase followed, Bonnie catching another retaliatory blow from Batugei before she managed to put some distance between them. The hits stung even though she was wearing her fighting leathers. Like the orc had said, if she _did_ have to haul grain with fresh bruises, it was going to be _deeply_ miserable work.

 _Okay, Bonnie, how do you salvage this one?_ she thought, a corner of her still cursing the orc for making her cheap shot so expensive. _I guess you need to hit him somewhere else that's tender._

She kept just ahead of her opponent long enough for the crowd to settle back down, parrying a jab and nearly rapping the orc across the fingers in rebuke.

"I suddenly wish you were taller," quipped Batugei, the orc somehow making a pleasant smile out of a mouthful of pearly knives. "If you weren't so close to the ground, maybe you wouldn't have to fight so dirty."

This earned some chuckles from the onlookers, but the orc's body language didn't quite match his casual tone. In contrast, Bonnie grinned impishly, giving a showy twirl of one rod, then another.

"I won't seem so short after you're laid flat," said Bonnie in a teasing voice. "Which you would be if you were a bull instead of a steer."

There were 'ooohs' from the audience and Batugei's easy-going demeanor fell away.

 _If you can't hit 'em in the balls, hit 'em in the ego,_ thought Bonnie, offering the orc a wink.

Fighting with sticks, there was no way Bonnie was going to whittle down her opponent before he got in the one really good hit he'd need to drop her. Batugei knew this and had been fighting accordingly -- it's why he'd agreed to Bonnie's wager in the first place. But normally Batugei fought with a big-ass sword, one a fair bit longer than the club he was using now. And judging from the way he'd shifted to a two-handed grip, his stance widening for a heavy swing, it looked like he'd just forgotten that little detail.

Turns out having your manhood insulted after being smacked in the crotch could be a mite distracting.

Bonnie paced two steps to the side and then sprinted forward, trying to dart around behind the orc. With a whistling swing, Batugei let fly a blow that would have caught Bonnie on the way past, likely knocking her the hells out in the process... if the club weren't an inch too short to connect.

Even prepared for it, the force of the whoosh as it whistled past Bonnie's head was startling, a wordless swear ringing through her thoughts.

This time she hit him in the back of the knee, the orc's leg folding as one knee hit soil and he struggled to not topple over completely. The other rod caught him just below the ribs; Batugei was probably too muscly for that to knock the wind out of him, but it'd still hurt like heck. The third blow was at the back of the elbow, hitting a nerve that made the orc fumble his club.

If Bonnie had real weapons, she'd have her choice of places to hit next --injuring the kidneys, severing a tendon, or going for that major artery in the thigh-- depending on whether or not she wanted him dead. But this was just a spar, where the point was to get crowned by the crowd instead of taking her opponent to pieces. Which was why Bonnie bent low while dropping her weapons, hitched her shoulder between Batugei's legs, and _lifted_.

One hand grabbing a thigh, the other hand moving to the middle of his back, Bonnie pulled Batugei completely off his feet -- _Fuck, he's heavy!_ \-- as deceptively strong halfling muscles flexed... and an orc probably five times her weight was hoisted overhead.

Bonnie caught a glimpse of the rest of the caravan looking absolutely gobsmacked. It was a sight she would have liked to savor if she weren't about two heartbeats away from collapsing like an overburdened mule. In her mind she threw Batugei end over end so he landed on his belly... but what actually happened was that she nearly toppled sideways, half-chucking, half-dropping the orc unceremoniously on his backside beside her.

Still, he had exactly the 'What in the hells just happened?!' look she'd been hoping for.

Flushed and too winded to deliver some sort of boastful one-liner, Bonnie planted one boot triumphantly on the orc's chest and pumped her fists skyward.

The caravan lost their godsdamned minds and Bonnie smiled in ear-to-ear triumph.

There was a wheeze below and then a sharp whistle, Batugei looking breathless but with two fingers in his mouth.

Working under the assumption that that wasn't to celebrate her victory, Bonnie ground the heel of a boot into one of Batugei's ribs. Then, with a mental shrug, she looked back to her adoring crowd and-

"Gah!"

Someone shoved Bonnie from behind, causing her to topple forward and land awkwardly atop the orc. Then she felt something hard and circular pressing down on her back, heavy enough it made breathing a chore.

The crowd was laughing but it wasn't until she felt something chewing on her hair that she twigged to what the hells had just happened.

"Get off me, you striped bastard!" she shouted, thrashing impotently, pinned beneath the zebra's hoof.

It was probably five heartbeats later that Deaglán --Téigh bless him-- hauled on Sudal's reins, the zebra giving Bonnie's scalp one last good yank before letting itself be led away.

Bonnie scrambled up, being none too gentle to Batugei in the process, one hand going to her slobber-damp hair. "That was cheating!" she shrieked.

Not so much rising as scrabbling out of kicking range, Batugei found a toothy smile from somewhere and said, "If I weren't so close to the ground, maybe I wouldn't have to fight so dirty."

Before Bonnie could offer a boot-based rejoinder, Shona strolled over. The pleased expression on her face could only mean someone was getting screwed over. "Looked to me like the zebra pinned you both."

Wincing as he tested a tender spot on his ribs, Batugei looked up and said in a pleased tone, "An orc is never alone in a fight."

With a grin that would make babes weep, Shona said, "You won't be emptying the wagons alone either. The wager was that the winner didn't have to unload, so you and Bonnie will have each other." She winked. "I'll make sure Sudal has some oats while he waits for you two to finish."

The stunned silence that followed was broken by the barking call of a too-smug zebra.

* * *

_~Shona's a bitch. Oh, Shona's a bitch. She makes me unload wagons beca~ause she's such a bitch.~_

A sack of corn slung over one aching shoulder and a sack of sorghum over the other, Bonnie hummed softly while she hauled the feed to the waiting hobs. True, with the road to the granary being too narrow for the wagons, _someone_ had to unload the feed and haul it down the path... but that didn't mean it had to be Bonnie.

Batugei passed her on the winding alley to the granary, heading back toward the wagons to grab another load. Hearing Bonnie's tune as they passed, he flashed her a carnivore's grin.

Nothing settled hard feelings like a bitch of a boss to be miffed at together.

Bonnie was humming her way through another unflattering stanza when she realized she wasn't alone outside the granary, two orange-furred and brown-striped hobs glowering at her in unison. Oh right: hobs were touchy about singing. She'd heard in some parts of the Khanate you could get your hands branded for whistling in public.

One of the hobs wiggled his hands and gave a chirp, probably talking shit about Bonnie right now. The other answered with a sweeping gesture and a click of the tongue, which for all she knew was Hob for, 'And she's ugly too.'

Craning her head up --because everyone in this world was too dang tall-- Bonnie offered a feral grin and said in a singsong voice, "~Got your corn right heeereee,~" ending with a wavering high note. 

One of the hobs coughed in rebuke while the other wrinkled its big, flat nose up and said in accented Caint, "Stack those inside with the others." A beat, and then he added, "Quietly."

Tempted as Bonnie was to 'accidentally' drop a sack on their toes, she settled for humming softly as she entered the dimness of the granary. Shona had warned everyone that morning that Hirata province had gotten a new samurai assigned to it a couple seasons ago. In that time this samurai had become known as being uptight even by hob standards, and a samurai's displeasure was usually expressed by lopping parts off people until they stopped misbehaving. As such, Bonnie had resolved to keeping any real fun constrained to when there weren't any hobs around that could tattle on her.

The granary was a cavernous structure with walls of clay brick at the bottom and walls of wood at the top. The only light was admitted through narrow windows built into the timber --probably that high up to keep vermin from getting in-- and the sunbeams didn't so much illuminate the interior as show just how choked with hay and dust the air was inside. Orcs could see in dim light well and hobs could probably identify the stacks of feed by smell, but Bonnie had to wander around the dusty space until she heard the pop of corn kernels underfoot. A stack towered over her in the dimness.

With a grunt, Bonnie chucked the sack up top, the halfling having to tread carefully so she didn't trip in the process. She was just about to do the same with the sack of sorghum when a throat cleared in the shadows beyond. Looking up, Bonnie saw a female hob returning her stare, the cheap-looking jinbei she was wearing screaming _slave_ nearly as much as the collar around her neck.

"Not corn," the hob said oh-so-helpfully.

_Gee, I hadn't realized._

"Where's-" started Bonnie but she was interrupted by the slave pointing to the silhouette of a feed stack further along the wall.

Bonnie was eager to be out of this place since it felt like her lungs had more hay than air in them. As such, she hustled down the aisle, dropping the sack of sorghum at the base of the designated pile. She then sped past the slave --who was using a knife to add a mark to a tally stick-- making her way back out into the light, a tuneless hum on her lips.

Neither of the hobs from earlier were out front which meant Bonnie's little musical number went unappreciated.

Hirata was located on the edge of orc territory, forest and hills giving way to savanna. Every autumn orcs would descend on the city to buy feed for their livestock, selling off the animals they didn't intend to shelter over the winter. It was why Shona had loaded the caravan with grain in Puckade and then come here... Which was stupid as far as Bonnie was concerned; the Khanate had fees like a bakemono had teeth, and they'd take a similar bite out of the caravan’s profits.

 _Once I have my own caravan, you won't find me traveling through the Khanate,_ vowed Bonnie as she walked down the path back. Her stomach growled as she went, reminding her that she'd only had a trail biscuit for second breakfast and elevenses had been some time ago.

She kept expecting to pass Batugei on her way back and was surprised to find the orc sitting on the back of an empty wagon. He was whittling a small block of hard cheese down and popping the slices into his mouth. Sudal was hitched to a nearby tree, the zebra contentedly eating from a (by now much smaller) pile of oats. Eithne and Deaglán had been on stacking duty --dragging the sacks of feed to the back of the wagon so Bonnie and Batugei could haul them away-- and were now sweeping out the wagon bed.

"-is that the steaders have gotten complacent. Half of them expect to be annexed by the Khanate in the next thirty years and the other half already have been," grumbled Eithne, a voice that sounded like it should be for singing instead used for ranting.

Bonnie rolled her eyes but didn't interrupt. Instead she jogged over, craning her head around the side of the wagon to confirm that, yup, the other five wagons were conspicuously absent. She then plopped down beside Batugei, the orc cutting off a chunk of cheese and wordlessly offering it to her. She took it eagerly, too hungry to care that it was goat cheese and therefore only a slight improvement on starvation.

"Okay," answered Deaglán, taking care to stay out of reach of Eithne's gesticulations while he swept. "But they didn't exactly have a choice. When the hobs come marching up with an army, it's not like the steaders have one of their own packed away in the root cellar." He gave a little chuckle, more to soften the objection than from the joke, before getting back to his sweeping.

Eithne was a wisp of a halfling: reed-thin and pale as porcelain, which made her dark hair stand out all the more in contrast. A repeating, spiral-patterned tattoo started at her left forearm and continued up to the shoulder. The design was now about a quarter of the way across the woman's back, though most of that was hidden under her tunic. It announced to the world that, one, she had a surprisingly high tolerance for pain and, two, that Eithne was a spiralist to the core.

"That is exactly my point: why don't they have an army? Tír Tairngire had several armies, one sworn to each of the Spiral Queens." The broom in Eithne's hands was more prop than anything given how little attention was being paid to her sweeping.

As Bonnie took another piece of cheese off of Batugei, Deaglán finally noticed she was there and offered her a quick wave. Bonnie grinned then looked pointedly at Eithne, wordlessly asking if he needed bailing out.

Messy, nut-brown hair framed hazel eyes and a face that was unusually free of freckles. Deaglán was two inches taller than Bonnie but spindly, and he somehow had both smile and frown lines creasing his face. His nose was kinked a little to the left, the result of an old break that hadn't healed quite right. He'd earned it from a punch to the face --a fact which Bonnie had been thrilled to hear, wondering if her gentle traveling companion had hidden, dangerous depths to him-- but then she’d heard the truth and learned that, no, Deaglán was every inch the soft-hearted fellow he appeared to be.

In response to Bonnie's silent offer, he gave an abbreviated shake of his head then turned back to Eithne. "I mean, yeah, they did, sort of, but the armies were mostly just tribute collectors, right?” He shrugged, sweeping a little more before leaning on his broom. “It was the navy that made everyone scared of the Spiral Queens. 'Course, that was back before the first Khan stole iron-working from the dwarves and up and conquered most of the continent. Tír Tairngire never had to worry about invading armies, bein' an island, and the Spiral Queens collapsed before the Khanate had expanded as far as the Airgead Sea anyway."

Eithne sniffed imperiously at Deaglán --"The halfling people would be better off if they united under a second Tír Tairngire."-- and Bonnie had to swallow a laugh. The gal was a lot of fun under the right circumstances, but not when she was _spiraling_ out of control.

_Ha! Nice one, Bonnie. You'll have have to remember that one._

Unwilling to wait longer, Bonnie asked loudly, "Hey Deag, Enny, where are the other wagons? I thought they'd bring them around before this one was emptied. Not that I want to unload 'em, I'm just wondering how pissed Shona will be if I pop off now for a bit of lunch."

Bonnie was expecting Eithne to look miffed at having her favorite subject changed out from under her. Instead, the gal moved over and lifted one wagon flap, peering outward, then jogged across the empty wagon and peeked out the other side. Only then did she answer Bonnie, getting close and speaking in a whisper. "Shona took the rest of the caravan to the edge of town and met with a bunch of orcs directly. No tariffs or merchant fees if there's no hobs involved."

Hobs had excellent hearing so Eithne's whispering suddenly made a lot more sense.

Bonnie nodded. Then she blinked, a twinge coming from her aching shoulder. Then she said in a whisper-shout, "Then why in the hells did Shona make me and Batugei unload this one?! There's rampant bitchery and then there's-"

Eithne silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips -- Bonnie had to resist the urge to bite her. The pale spiralist whispered back, "The caravan has to deliver _something_ to the granary or it'll look suspicious."

 _That... is a surprisingly good answer,_ Bonnie begrudgingly conceded.

Rather than dwell on that, Bonnie clapped her hands together and said, "Dandy. Now, who wants to go find a meal? I certainly didn't haul feed for a hundred hungry cows so I could starve. Enny? Deag? You two in?"

"Yeah, I'm hungry. Count me in," answered Deaglán, a grin visible under his kinked nose.

Eithne looked about to accept when she glanced down at the wagon below her feet and blew out a sigh. "Can't. Shona will tan my hide if I don't get our half of the tally stick from the granary and then drive the wagon back to the caravan."

Normally she'd need a guard like Batugei or Bonnie to tag along considering she'd also be carrying their pay for the delivered feed. However, hobs paid with receipts which you could exchange for coins through the town's exchequer. Bonnie thought it was a pain in the ass, but it did make Eithne a lot less of a target.

Bonnie turned and nudged Batugei casually with her elbow. "I'll buy you a beer for that ass-whipping you took earlier," and she flashed him a shit-eating grin.

The orc chuckled as he rose to his feet, the wagon shifting from the sheer weight of him. "Very kind of you," and he pocketed his small knife and shoved the remainder of the goat cheese into a bag hanging off his hip. "However, beer is grain; there's a reason my people buy that for our animals instead of ourselves."

Bonnie waved his objection aside. "There's a whole lot of orcs in town now. I'm sure the taverns have something you could drink without it coming right back up."

"Fermented milk," answered Batugei, "and I may take you up on that offer another day. As you say, there are quite a few orcs camped nearby and I would like to pay some of them a visit." The orc had strolled over to his tethered mount, giving the animal an affectionate pat along the flank while the zebra nosed through the dirt looking for stray oats. "Plus, Sudal would piss on my belongings if I didn't let him join the other zebras when we had the chance. I spotted a small herd among the orcs as we were riding into town."

After spending a moment checking the straps of Sudal's saddle, Batugei turned to Eithne and said, "I will be happy to ride with you since we're headed to similar places."

"Sure. Thanks," said Eithne, hopping down to go bother the granary hobs for Shona’s half of the tally stick.

Deaglán and Bonnie, meanwhile, gathered up the few things of theirs they’d kept in the back of the wagon and hopped down, ready to leave.

"And Bonnie-" called the orc, Bonnie and Deaglán turning his way. "-I hope you will not find trouble while you are away."

Bonnie flashed a faux-innocent smile. "Of course not."

Batugei hooked one foot into the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle with practiced ease. "It's only, you are wearing your ponytail and I've heard rumors about what that means."

"Nothing but hot air," answered Bonnie. "I won't be getting into trouble." With that she gave a quick wave and then started moving at a brisk walk out of the alley, too hungry for an idle stroll.

Keeping pace beside her, Deaglán flashed her, or rather her ostentatious ponytail, a worried look.

There was a specific blend of 'busy' and 'seedy' she was looking for in their lunch venue, so Bonnie eyed the town around her with interest. She spared a glance to Deaglán. "Really," she insisted.

_After all, you have to get caught to be in trouble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to Amalgam! I plan to post this story in installments one Wednesday at a time, much like I did over in [Connie Swap](https://archiveofourown.org/series/630527). If you're curious to read more right now, you can go check out the [introductory vignettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775092/chapters/39363619) I wrote to help break in the characters and setting.
> 
> A big 'thank you' to [Accoutremetal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accoutremetal/pseuds/Accoutremetal), CedricTheOwl, and [Cyberwraith9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberwraith9/pseuds/Cyberwraith9) for their help improving this story thus far, and an exponentially bigger, preemptive 'thank you' for the work that's ahead of us.
> 
> The halflings of Amalgam are small in size only: they are quick and strong beyond what their child-like frames would imply, though they have an appetite to match. The race falls into two groups: the steaders and the wanderers. The majority of halflings are steaders and are all but incapable of leaving the area surrounding their town. The wanderers are gripped by wanderlust and compelled to travel. It's a fundamental dichotomy to the race and to all the societies they've given rise to.
> 
> The Spiralist's pattern looks something like this, if you're curious:  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	3. Caravan's Arrival (Bonnie's Past)

> _Nice gods. We’ll take ‘em._

\- Graffiti found outside a halfling temple in Puckade

* * *

"Pull!" shouted Da.

Bonnie and Neasa hauled against the yoke in their hands. At first the plow refused to budge, but digging her boots into the soil, Bonnie heaved and felt the contraption move.

"Ha! Keep it going, girls!" cried Da, limping hurriedly around so he could help them pull.

The goats were watching them from their pen, their bleating a background noise so constant that Bonnie had stopped noticing it years ago. The exertion set Bonnie's stomach rumbling and she envisioned one of the goats as a mutton dinner, with a hearty meat stew for the supper to follow.

The yoke was intended for an ox but Ballinack had no oxen. Bonnie hadn't been old enough to remember the last horse in town, and you couldn't pull a plow with goats or pigs. But halflings were deceptively strong for their size and the thirteen-year-old Bonnie was strong for a halfling.

The three of them made it to the end of the row, around the old stump, and halfway to the end of the next row before Da called a stop, his bad leg clearly paining him. Bonnie's older sister helped Da hobble over to the shady corner of the field where a bucket of water was waiting. But Bonnie, buoyed by a swelling feeling of accomplishment, kept at it, getting the plow a few yards further all on her own before forced to stop.

Stomach rumbling like she'd swallowed a thunderstorm, Bonnie hurried over toward the others.

Da drank deeply, got another ladle-full of water to dribble over his flushed scalp, and then let the daughters help themselves as he propped his leg up on a nearby rock. He slapped Bonnie affectionately on the shoulder after she'd drunk her fill. "Who needs a horse when I've got a gal like you, eh?"

Bonnie smiled but Neasa pulled a face and snarked, "I bet when she joins a caravan, they make her pull a wagon."

Bonnie was just about to retort when she noticed Ma hurrying over, the skirt of her dress lifted so she could run faster. The girl’s stomach hoped Ma was calling them to afternoon tea; she could demolish a pot of pottage just then.

"Senan's lad just ran by to spread the news: there's a caravan coming down Sheridan's Way right now!" Ma hollered.

Da was up in an instant, the ache of his leg forgotten and Ma was already hurrying back to the house. Bonnie, startled, clambered to her feet and looked to see if her older sister was as thrown by this as she was.

Neasa, meeting Bonnie's gaze, made a mocking noise like the whinny of a horse before turning and sprinting towards the house after their parents.

A caravan hadn't come to Ballinack in years.

* * *

Ma was bustling frantically, trying on one dress only to find it too tight around the middle and sweeping it off to try on another. Da, meanwhile, had slicked his hair back with grease and was gone to fetch the best cheeses from the cellar. Neasa had vanished while Bonnie had been distracted by hunger, helping herself to bread and pottage since no one was going to object.

With a grunt, Ma pulled the dress down over her head, tugging at fabric to help the fit. She peered forward into a basin of water, studying her reflection, then turned to Bonnie. "How do I look?" she asked with an anxious smile.

_Like that time Lorcan squeezed old Mister Ultán's prize sow into a shift and tied a bonnet to its head._

Bonnie, a teenager, had been rowing with Ma a lot these days but she couldn't quite bring herself to say that out loud. Ma looked so earnest just then and it was weird seeing everyone scrambling about.

"You look nice, Ma," she said after a silence that had stretched out just a bit too long. Out of a nervous habit, she reached out and ran her hand along a nearby wall. The daub was made of a mixture of mud and straw and for some reason the rough-yet-crumbly texture helped ground her.

Ma flashed her a bright grin and then bustled across their cramped, wattle-and-daub home, grabbing up some of their nicer belongings as she went. Twisting around, she called back to Bonnie, "Oh, run out to the shed and grab those daibo blades."

Bonnie jolted in surprise. "What?!" she exclaimed. "You want to trade those away?!" Ma and Da had been part of the militia that had killed off some of the dai-bakemono raiders, and those knives had been their share of the spoils. One was bronze and, if you looked carefully, you could still see some of the scale patterns etched into the hilt to show it had originally been kobold-forged.

Ma shook her head. "Bonnie, everyone in town is going to bring the same three or four things to trade: cheese, smoked meat, animal feed, and soapstone carvings. Those blades will get noticed, which is important with wanderers. And there's a story to go with those that there isn't with a hunk of goat cheese; wanderers like that too. Now run and grab 'em-" Ma tugged at the bodice of her dress so that it better showed off her cleavage. "-Let's go get noticed."

* * *

Near the center of Ballinack was a small temple filled with shrines because, as the halflings of the town figured, you never really knew who was listening so it was best to cover your options.

Each interior corner had a shrine to the elven gods of the seasons -- Samhradh, Fómhar, Geimhreadh, and Earrach, as they were known to the halflings. Máthair Mhór's shrine stood in the center, the divine matriarch who would hopefully keep her unruly children in line and looking favorably on the steaders. Fan's shrine was carved into a stone that jutted out from the temple's floor, as was befitting of the god who was dedicated to the stationary things in this world. It was decorated with bright pigments every solstice, and a festival was held in his honor just outside the temple, in the town square beyond.

In the hopes that the quarry would yield more tin and less soapstone, the stern-faced Father of Stone had a shrine along one wall. None of the halflings of the stead had seen a dwarf before so the shrine showed only a bearded frown; the miners would sometimes leave bits of copper out for the dwarf god to nibble on.

In one dusty section was a crude shrine to Magog, the hyena-headed goddess depicted in red-banded soapstone. Two generations ago, a pox had afflicted many of the town's goats, so one of the more desperate goatherds had erected the shrine to the Gog's deity. She'd even gone so far as to splash it lightly with goat's blood because the Gogs were known to be a bloody people and so too must their goddess be. The ailment had eventually run its course, though it ravaged for too long for Magog to earn any worshipers. The shrine had gone untouched since. Some had raised the subject of clearing out the shrine, but fear that this might bring down Magog's displeasure had been enough to keep the red-banded icon on display.

However, larger than any other shrine was Téigh's. Fan’s twin sister, she was the traveler goddess who had imbued a portion of the halfling people with wanderlust. Hers was a full statue made of alabaster, carried there intact by the original town founders. A frame of wood was built around the statue's base, with poles extending out so that steaders could lift the statue up and carry it to a new position within the temple every fortnight.

As Ma, Da, and Bonnie headed for the center of town, the girl saw that Téigh's statue had been moved out into the square to celebrate the caravan's arrival, the line of wagons circling the alabaster icon as steaders teemed around them. Garlands and bright streamers of cloth had been tossed over Téigh, along with at least one petticoat.

Bonnie had been six when the last caravan had come to Ballinack, and so she remembered mostly dancing and sweets. Now, though, she could see that trade or even celebration was a secondary concern to sex, the adults among the stead attempting to entice one or more of the travelers away to an unoccupied bed.

While Bonnie stared, Ma pushed past, approaching a red-haired traveler smoking a pipe and saying something in a husky voice. She raised her skirt enough to show the daibo blade held in her garter.

Da had already disappeared into the crowd, doing his level best to underplay his limp, a wedge of cheese in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

Ma and Da liked each other well enough, better than some parents did, but they were like close friends who shared chores and exchanged the occasional kiss on the cheek. Just as it was bad to breed animals too closely related, steaders found little physical attraction among other steaders... or so Maebh had explained when a younger Bonnie had asked why everyone was teasing Sinéad for something she'd been caught doing with Lorcan.

Bonnie was going to be a wanderer so it looked like she would be like Ma and Da towards other wanderers; she certainly didn't feel like smooching with anyone. But since she was from Ballinack, no steaders were interested in her, nor she, them. 

The carousing around the caravan was starting to thin as couples and trios scampered off. However, Bonnie couldn't help but notice that at least one sharp-eyed guard remained near every wagon, as well as three who were watching over the caravan's draft animals.

Instead, Bonnie decided that some of the weapons those guards had sheathed looked interesting and went over to strike up a conversation. In fact, the seventeen-year-old Ciara was already there, the only other halfling still in Ballinack who'd touch the rock, so clearly this was the place to be.

With a smirk, Bonnie resolved to let slip that _she'd_ touched the rock at nine while Ciara hadn't touched it until she was fourteen. And if that didn't impress the guards, well, maybe she'd find an excuse to lift something really heavy.

...Right after she made sure they didn't actually use halflings to pull their wagons. Maybe she should count their oxen first to make sure.


	4. It's Only Trouble If You Get Caught

> _"The only thing worse than a thief is a tax collector. Both leave me less coin than I started with, but at least the thief knows to act guilty doing it."_

\- Yasmine Touati the Oft-Fined, merchant of Deccar

* * *

Bonnie glowered at the distant floor, her seat being half-again too large for a halfling. She kicked her feet in the open air sullenly.

 _Who doesn't have any proper chairs? This isn't a steader town but wanderers go_ everywhere.

Bonnie turned and glared at the dark-skinned human working behind the bar, the man leaning forward to hand cups down to Deaglán. The name of the place wasn't even in Caint, written in some human script instead; a fact which bothered Bonnie like a pebble in her boot. Caint was the language of trade, carried to every corner of creation by traveling halflings like herself. Everyone who wasn't an idiot spoke Caint and many could read at least a few words of it. If this were a hob place, Bonnie wouldn't feel so annoyed if they'd used their own squiggle-writing out front because hobs were known assholes.

But humans should know better.

Weaving his way over, Deaglán passed Bonnie's mug up to her. He then set his own on the table, climbed into his seat, and slid a few coppers in change across to her.

 _At least the drinks are cheap,_ she conceded with a mental grumble, the brew finally washing the lingering taste of goat cheese out of her mouth. Fortunately, by the end of a long swig of beer, their meal arrived. It was ushered out by a girl who bore passing resemblance to the man standing behind the bar, a young human who nonetheless had more than a foot of height on either halfling. With a curt nod, Bonnie tucked immediately into the food, Deaglán only a quick word of thanks behind her. It was cold meat, bread, and porridge -- nothing that'd need to be prepared in the detached kitchen out back because fast was better than good to the halflings just then.

The two ate in near silence, Bonnie using the time to take a better look at her surroundings.

The furniture, aside from being too large, was sturdily built, with chipped and faded designs painted into the table tops. The floor was covered with mats of woven rushes and, most eye-catchingly, the walls were festooned with little nooks, each holding a different clay figurine. Some were of animals, others of soldiers, and a few clay monsters rounded out the collection.

Maybe it was a human thing or maybe the owner was just weird. Either way, Bonnie had never seen anything like it.

Out front, and what had attracted Bonnie’s notice in the first place, was a long hitching post and a water trough at which no fewer than eight animals were tethered. This included a fierce-looking rhino with a richly-decorated saddle on its back, the beast shooting passersby beady-eyed glares as if daring them to give it an excuse to charge.

In the back of the barroom was the doorway their waitress had emerged from. This was screened off with strings of hanging herbs, like a beaded curtain minus the beads. However, it had the effect of making the barroom smell more like basil and less like its sweaty patrons, a fact which Bonnie appreciated.

The only light was what came in through the open doorway, making the interior rather dim... not that that'd be a problem for most of the other patrons. The tavern --whatever its name-- was only a street removed from a large, open-air market that was currently being used by the visiting orcs to sell off livestock and the products thereof. Bonnie had chosen this establishment because it was packed with orcs.

Orcs fresh from the market, with purses full of coins... and not a hob in sight.

It looked like there were two or three different groups of orcs here judging from the way the clothing styles differed. Plus, there were gaps between the otherwise packed tables like lines drawn on a map. Going by the occasional scowls, it looked like they were none too fond of each other.

Setting down his spoon and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Deaglán sighed contentedly. Then he followed Bonnie's gaze --the adjacent table had five female orcs in brightly-dyed caftans crowded around it, their attention fixed on the game of chance taking place at the center-- and he frowned.

He scooted his too-large chair closer to hers so that he wouldn't have to shout across an oversided table. "Bonnie, no," he said in a hushed voice.

"Bonnie, yes," answered the blonde with a wide grin. "You know I'll never afford my own caravan with the shit-pay Shona keeps us on." She nodded toward the quintet of distracted orcs, their purses _achingly_ full and unwatched. "Not unless I do a little side work now and then."

"But the samurai- Shona warned us that-"

Then Deaglán noticed the distinct lack of hobs around to witness them and he slumped into his seat.

"At least wait until we've finished a proper hot meal," he pleaded.

Bonnie was about to object when pleading, hazel eyes and a rumble from her own stomach combined to overrule her. "Yeah, okay," she said.

"Your treat," pressed Deaglán.

Bonnie chuckled. "My treat, Deag," and she stood up in her mountain-of-a-chair and flagged down the waitress.

* * *

"Би цустай хамт талбайг усжуулах болно!" shouted the orc as she grabbed Bonnie by the wrist. The halfling had no idea what all of that meant in orc-speak, but it probably wasn't anything nice.

Bonnie had been winding her way through the tables, back from a trip to the latrine outside, and had been leaving the purses in her wake a little lighter. Between pickpocketing and using a small bronze knife she kept precisely for cutting purse linings, she'd been able to enjoy a hearty meal with Deaglán and make a tidy profit besides.

Deaglán had urged them to go after latrine trip number two, but there were several tables she hadn't made her way past yet and that small bladder of hers was earning her quite the windfall.

As an incensed orcish woman in a bright red-and-yellow caftan shouted at her, Bonnie considered that maybe Deaglán had been onto something with his idea of quitting while she was ahead.

 _Well, nothing for it now,_ she thought as she stamped down hard on the woman's shoe.

There was a shout of pain and then the woman whipped Bonnie up and over by her arm --because it wasn't just the orc men who were strong-- flinging the halfling into the throng of confused patrons. Bonnie hit a table hard -- _Oof!_ \-- the table and halfling both toppling to the floor.

The overpowering smell of sour milk meant that the drinks had gone flying too.

While Bonnie's lungs tried to reinflate, there was the shouting of multiple voices followed by the sound of chairs being pushed back. An orc, shellacked in fermented milk, grabbed a clay manticore from the wall and chucked it at someone in the throng. Another tried to reach for Bonnie but was interrupted by a third, who nearly trampled the prone halfling in his haste to cross the room.

Finally managing to suck in a breath, Bonnie flipped over and half-crawled, half-scampered on all fours. She dove under the cover of a recently-vacated table, taking care not to snag her ponytail along the way.

Something happened overhead causing the table to shudder ominously, the contents thereof scattering to the floor. These included a mancala board with colored stones as well as an assortment of coins. They were oblong pieces of bronze and silver, probably orcish, but Bonnie didn't stop to ask while she hastily shoved some into a pouch at her hip.

She felt someone grab for her ankle and Bonnie kicked without looking back. She crawled onward for the next table as more insults and clay figurines were hurled above.

Three tables (and one near-trampling of her fingers) later, Bonnie had reached the edge of the furniture forest with her destination in sight: the nice-smelling curtain to the rear of the tavern and her way to escape out the back. A glance showed a conspicuously absent Deaglán, which was a relief. He'd joined Bonnie on enough capers --sometimes even willingly-- to know when to slip out. Something was going on out in the street that had a dozen orcs all shouting and rushing the front door but she paid it no mind.

What she _did_ care about was her red-and-yellow friend from earlier, who'd fought her way through the ruckus in pursuit.

"шавьж, би чамайг барьсан," the orc declared through a sharp-toothed grin.

Bonnie was eyeing the woman carefully as she backed toward the exit. She could take down the woman, probably, but it'd slow her down and, worse, attract attention. So instead Bonnie pulled a small throwing knife out of her belt, holding it nimbly between thumb and forefinger.

The orc eyed the halfling and dagger warily.

Bonnie motioned like she was about to throw the dagger, the orc raising her hands to protect her face. Then Bonnie turned and sprinted for the curtain, shoving the blade back into its sheath. An orcish roar of frustration saw her out, Bonnie weaving through two rooms and out an open door, barreling past some startled human in the process.

Down one twisting alley, scrabbling over a short fence, and then out into a distant street, Bonnie slowed to a walk and started to move unhurriedly in the general direction of the caravan. Deaglán caught up with her probably a quarter-mile later.

"Hey Deag," she said, various aches and pains making themselves known as the excitement wore off.

He was dusty and one of his trouser legs was wet and muddy for some reason. He started to approach Bonnie when his nostrils flared and he hastily repositioned himself a little further away upwind.

_Right. Fermented milk._

"You hurt?" he asked.

“Nah. And look, I’ve still got my ponytail,” she said, gesturing at her hair. “You know it’s alright if I’m still wearing that.” Stepping closer, she gave her head an exaggerated shake so the ponytail brushed across Deag’s face.

Fending her off, he rolled his eyes but the relief in them was clear.

Relenting, Bonnie gave his damp leg a look. “You?” she asked, his sodden shoe squelching with each step.

"I'm fine." He ran a hand through nut-brown hair, a little cloud of dust falling free as he did. "Though someone must have untied several of the animals out front because a horse bolted during the ruckus."

"Good man," said Bonnie, favoring her friend with an appreciative smile.

He answered it with one an impish one of his own before his expression sobered and he shook his head. "That set off some of the other mounts; they ran off as well. Including that big rhino, which hadn't been untied so it just tore the post out of the ground, upending the water trough as it did."

His shoe squelched noisily.

They walked in silence for a little longer (wet shoe notwithstanding) before Bonnie said, "When I get my caravan, Daeg, you'll get your own wagon. A nice one, like Connor's."

"Thanks Bonnie." Deaglán started to approach when he was warned off by the milk miasma once more. Waving a hand in front of his nose, he added, "Though that makes the fifth wagon you've promised me so far."

"I'll have to make it a big caravan then," Bonnie answered.

* * *

Shona was a real piece of work. As if the rising sun routinely pissed in her porridge, she greeted each morning with a scowl, the lines in her face deep and well-worn. Hawkish brown eyes and a narrow mouth good for frowning completed the face, and the body was the rangy, leanness typical of an old wanderer. She had thick, curly hair that was a halfway color between red and brown, though tinged in places with grey. The bangs she kept short so all the world could see her ruddy eyebrows when they were drawn in disapproval, which was often. The rest of her curly mop framed her head like a poofy helmet, the locks trimmed to reach no lower than Shona's jawline.

That was the sight Bonnie was treated to when she and Deaglán returned to the caravan, her wingless harpy of a boss fixing her with a doozy of scowl as Deag finished his recounting of events.

Deag would lie to the Khanate for Bonnie, would lie to orcs and dwarven merchants and others still if it'd help keep trouble from landing on one of his fellow wanderers. But he wouldn't lie 'within the family' as he put it -- the result of what could only be described as a tragically supportive upbringing. As such, him giving these little reports to an irate Shona was a fairly common part of caravan life.

Bonnie had made peace with her friend's narrow-but-deep honest streak and besides, any day where Shona had that little vein at her temple throbbing couldn't be all bad.

"-then we made our way back here, staying off the main roads as we did," he finished, hands clasped in front of him.

About a third of the halflings were off carousing in Hirata, and Batugei was away doing orc stuff with the other orcs, but the rest of the caravan was present. Expressions ranged from Connor's look of concern --he would take over the caravan after Shona and so he took every opportunity to practice being sour-faced for his eventual promotion-- to Eithne's smirk of amusement.

Shona fished a pouch out from her vest and grabbed a wad of pipe-weed. She didn't smoke the stuff like a normal person would. No, instead she tucked it between her lip and teeth, chewing on it while she stared into the distance, thinking... or waiting for her venom glands to fill so she could spew concentrated bitchiness all over Bonnie.

A few chews later she spat in the grass and asked Deag, "Were any hobs in the tavern? Did any see you two leave?"

"I'm not soft-headed," snapped Bonnie before Deag had the chance to answer. "There was nobody but orcs and a couple humans; it's why I chose a dive like that in the first place. I've been stepping lightly 'round the hobs since we got to Hirata, _just like you said to,"_ she finished with a sarcastic burr to her voice.

Shona whirled on her, those red curls swaying like leaves caught in a gust. "Horse shit!" she snapped. "When was the last time you did what I told you to do without me having to chew you out before, after, and during? Huh?" A beat passed as she glared daggers at Bonnie. Then she pivoted away and started to rant while she paced. "What about a hob's slaves? Or an informant? You don't need a flat nose to be willing to sell out some fool wanderer with more ponytail than brains!"

Bonnie opened her mouth to respond, even if she wasn't quite sure with what exactly, when Deag jumped in. "I agree that it was chancy," and he shot Bonnie an apologetic glance before turning back to Shona. "But Bonnie was careful. Or lucky," he added as Shona looked about to object. "It was all orc herders and the human family running the tavern. Slaves can't own property, so they didn't belong to a hob, and magistrates usually don't listen to complaints unless another hob is involved. Mine certainly didn’t back in Barlow."

Shona chewed her pipe-weed for a moment, mulling this over before shaking her head. "Fine, we're not going to have a magistrate sic his yoriki on us," the woman said, referring to the soldiers that dealt with lawbreakers too petty to warrant a samurai's attention. "But I'll bet my breeches that one of those orcs complains to the exchequer."

Bonnie cocked her head to the side, pondering the rank stupidity on display in front of her. "So the hells what?! The exchequer doesn't care about theft, just trade, so the worst they'll do is call you in fishing for a six-copper bribe. The orcs just have words, but you've got the granary's tally stick to prove you're on the level."

The caravan boss spat a line of brown filth that landed less than an inch from Bonnie's boots. "But I'm not on the level, remember? Six wagons came into town but only one was unloaded at the granary. The orcs can't tattle about trading on the side because that'd be slitting their own throats, but if a clerk bothers to actually look, they'll see five wagons missing from the tally and start asking questions. Questions that'll be way more expensive than _six fucking coppers_ to answer."

 _Shit. You didn't think of that,_ confessed Bonnie to herself.

Unwilling to back down to Shona, though, Bonnie answered back, "So let's go! Send a runner to get the folks in town, someone go and grab Batugei, and let's just leave. You've already sold off all the grain and it's not like there's a bunch of steaders to fuck by sticking around anyway."

Shona had an inch on Bonnie in height but only because she wore buskins, effectively sandals that were pretending to be boots, with laces running up the calves. However, the soles on those things were thicker than a wagon wheel, which was why her boss was able to _loom_ at her like some kind of peacock of bitchitude.

"We haven't been paid for the granary wagon yet!" she barked. She stomped over to the wagon Bonnie and Batugei had unloaded before lunch. Pulling out the tally stick she'd need to take to the exchequer for payment, she brandished it like a club as she stormed back over toward Bonnie. "And I sure as shit am not going to take a wagonload as loss just because of your sticky fingers!"

 _I- But- We could-_ Bonnie's mouth opened and closed a few times as she struggled to find a proper retort. 

"Fuck you!" she managed eventually, arms crossed defensively.

Shona rolled her eyes and spat, attention suddenly on the rest of the caravan. "Connor, Anlon, hitch up the horses. We're going to head to the quarry and buy five wagons of lime, then keep the receipt for one. Anyone asks, we pulled several wagons of stone to Hirata and filled up the rest after selling off our grain."

Connor blinked. "But that'd be stupid."

The caravan boss nodded. "Yup, but not illegal. It'll cover our asses if any flat noses come sniffing around. We can sell it off in Dahir; being half underwater means they always need more cement."

With that, Connor got to moving, him and Shona giving out jobs and everyone generally hopping to. Bonnie, a little thrown at going from being chewed out to ignored in the span of a dozen heartbeats, shared an uncertain glance with Deag. The two started to head for the nearest wagon.

Despite having her back to the blonde, Shona snapped, "Not you," as soon as Bonnie moved. It was as if she had scowling eyes in the back of her head. "You're going to that hill along the southern road outside of town. Five wagons full of lime are heading there tonight and you're going to meet them."

"To do what?" challenged Bonnie, hands going to her hips.

"Guard them." Shona turned casually and fixed Bonnie with an unamused look. "You're a caravan guard, aren't ya?"

"No one's going to steal a bunch of rocks!"

Shona shifted the wad of pipe-weed from one side of her mouth to the other, expression flat. "You better hope not, because if there’s a single pebble missing when we leave, I'm going to be finding a new caravan guard-"

Bonnie opened her mouth to snap back but Shona leaned forward and said with dangerous calm, "-and you can walk to the next steader town."

Bonnie's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack and she wasn't able to hide the shiver that followed. Her cheeks flushed, first with shame and then with anger.

Teeth grinding, Bonnie gave a curt nod in submission.

Expression softening a mote, Shona nodded back. Then her nose wrinkled up and she waved a hand in front of her nose. "And go find a stream to wash in. You stink of sour milk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Mongolian for the orcs' language when it's overheard by someone who doesn't understand it. I should add the caveat that I'm having to rely on translation software for the phrasing, with all the shortcomings that implies. If there's anyone reading this who is able and willing to offer better translations, lemme know in the comments or the Discord.
> 
> Once more, an emphatic 'thank you' to [Accoutremetal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accoutremetal/pseuds/Accoutremetal), CedricTheOwl, and [Cyberwraith9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberwraith9/pseuds/Cyberwraith9) for helping make these chapters better. I think it'd get repetitive if I thanked y'all every week so I won't do that, but it certainly warrants saying at least once more.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	5. Trading and Training (Batugei's Past)

> _I heard you say humans were smarter than orcs, which seems odd because only one of us is riding a rhino right now. Maybe I'll be able to figure it out after my mount has gored you a few times and finished trampling your remains into the dust. It's a good thing I'll have the time, being a dumb orc and all._

\- Khenbish of the Urungkhait, orc mercenary

* * *

"[Let me help you with that,]" offered Batugei, speaking in the halfling tongue.

The dwarven merchant looked up at the orc like he'd asked to eat his family. He scowled back and said, "[Just tell me where to set up my wares. I'm eager to be done with this place.]"

Batugei, skin a middle color between green and brown, with bright eyes and beads woven into his hair, only smiled in return. This seemed to unsettle the dwarf further, much to the orc’s amusement. "[Ten yards east-north-east, and mind the goat shit.]"

The dwarf turned west then south, bewildered. Then he stared at the ground, lifting a boot up to examine the underside. It was funny just how lost the other races could be.

Orcs knew where north was relative to their facing. They knew it as surely as they knew where their hands were relative to their bodies. They didn't speak in 'left' or 'right' but in the cardinal directions. Left and right took thought, you had to teach a child to know one from the other, but north was north so obviously even whelps too small to speak could point it out.

Batugei's smile deepened as he pointed to help the poor merchant, then returned to his bench to resume his crafting.

* * *

"-Buqa's pelts are good pelts. Don't let him claim otherwise."

Batugei sat on a wooden bench in front of his yurt, half-focusing on his needlework while a sour-faced dwarven merchant bustled around a wagon, readying wares.

The semi-nomadic, semi-permanent village was bustling in the morning light, the horizon birthing the sun to the east. Women, orcs and sho-bakemonos alike, went among the chickens, rabbits, pigs, cows, mules, horses, zebras, even a few rhinos, herding and feeding and milking. Others were tending the crops, though only sho-bakemono, because it was a poor orc indeed who raised plants instead of animals.

The men, meanwhile, were at their crafts: sewing, smithing, cutting, carving, making all the things the village would use or trade. Those not crafting were training or grooming their animals. An orc could avoid changing his clothes or bathing often and it would go unremarked, but if his mount or hunting companion was unkempt, gossip and judgement would follow.

"Buqa will be fine. Dwarves always want the pelts, the leather, the wool," said Radnatani beside him, the woman claiming most of the bench for herself.

As head woman of the Daguur herd, she could take up as much of the bench as she wanted.

Batugei looked at her in profile. Light-green skin made darker by the sun, with dark hair hidden behind a decorative, beaded headscarf that, Batugei observed with pride, he had made as a gift for her last spring. She wore a colorful caftan robe over trousers, but muscle tone was visible wherever the clothing wasn't bunched.

She chewed irritably at a length of jerky while she glared at the merchant, like he was a problematic colt and she was considering gelding him. "It's Berkedai's knives he's going to try and fuck me on." She shook her head. "I told him not to make knives. You told him not to make knives. And when his knives won't sell for horse shit, I'm going to have a sulking, angry Berkedai moping around."

She transferred the jerky to the west side of her mouth as she turned to Batugei. "As if I don't have enough children to take care of." At that, one of the trio of children suckling at her shifted position, three of six flaps in Radnatani's caftan open for that purpose.

Batugei chuckled. "Maybe if you open a flap for him as well, he will mope less."

Radnatani scoffed and swatted him, but Batugei saw the twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

A pair of sho-bakemonos in woolen dresses walked over, one orange-skinned, the other brown splotched with green. As the orcs turned their way they smiled, showing flat teeth adept at chewing plants. If either had a carnivore's tooth in their mouth, they'd be punished. Sho-bakemonos were forbidden from eating meat lest their young grow into dai-bakemonos.

Radnatani and Batugei both had scars from dai-bakemonos, and they were hardly alone in that.

The head woman reached into her robes and withdrew a heavy coin purse. She handed it to the orange-skinned sho-bakemono, Nokai, who quickly began tallying the contents.

Batugei reached into his own robes and withdrew a more modest purse. "I could come with. I'm no stranger to haggling, or making merchants sweat."

Radnatani tsked at him as she plucked up the bag and passed it to the sho-bakemono. "If you didn't have women making your purchases, you'd fritter away your money on pretty, useless things. As if Sudal needs more beads in his mane."

Batugei held up his needlework, a sibling to Ranatani's scarf in progress. "I can't sew this with zebra hair." He grinned and touched her headscarf. "And if you're jealous of Sudal's beads, I could save the prettiest ones for you."

Radnatani rolled her eyes. "Men. You're only good for two things."

"What about mating season?" he replied, voice warm.

"Two-and-a-half."

The merchant finished his preparations and then looked their way, his scowl visible even at this distance. When the orcs didn't immediately hustle over, he spat and gave them an impatient wave.

"Careful he doesn't charm the money out of your fingers," said Batugei in a carrying whisper.

Radnatani's laugh was a percussive bark, deep and cynical. "I swear those runts get more unpleasant by the season. It's as if they expect us to carve them up for dog meat."

Batugei didn't share Radnatani's opinion. The dwarves were rarely friendly but they were usually fair, and that was good enough for him. But to the head woman he quipped with a grin, "The dogs would break their teeth on the stone."

Radnatani nodded. Then she swatted each of the children clinging to her. "Up. Girls, go with Sorqaqtani and milk the goats," and the brown-and-green sho-bakemono led the girls away. Radnatani picked up the boy and set him on the bench beside Batugei. "And you, sit with Batugei and learn something."

With that Radnatani snapped the three flaps shut and strode over to face the merchant, with Nokai there to help keep up with the numbers.

The boy wiped milk from his chin and scooched a little closer to get a better look at the man's sewing. He wore a plain wool dress like the sho-bakemonos did, no trousers because he was not yet old enough to ride. He touched some of the brighter colors and cooed.

Batugei smiled. "You like that?"

The boy nodded. "Pretty clothes make you look rich." He pointed. "Like mama."

The boy was close to four years of age if Batugei remembered correctly. A human or elven child at that age wouldn't be half so large, nor so smart. The orcs weren't among the greatest minds of this world, but they developed quickly.

Batugei brought out a rag and threaded needle, offering both to the boy. He then cut a small hole in the rag and said, "Sew that shut. I'll show you how."

It was slow going, and the stitching was crude beyond words, but the boy smiled as he worked. Batugei smiled to see it and they worked while the women haggled and argued with the merchant, the males the happier pair.

The boy was definitely Buqa's whelp. That pronounced chin could have come from no one else, though the boy's twin sisters could have been his or Berkedai's. Or both. Radnatani had accepted all three of them during that mating season, and a litter could have multiple fathers.

Batugei ruffled the boy's hair, then retrieved the needle and rag, making a mental note to praise the boy in front of Radnatani when the time was right. But first...

"You said earlier that the pretty clothes made your mother look rich."

The boy had been picking at a loose thread in his dress when he looked up at Batugei and nodded.

"That's a little truth. Do you want to hear the big truth?"

The boy considered this for a moment then smiled a carnivore's smile up at the larger orc. "Yeah!"

"What makes a person rich aren't things, it's animals. True wealth walks, breeds, and bleeds," said Batugei, one hand walking across the bench between them on four fingers. He made the fifth finger, the 'head,' rear up and he made a whinny noise like a horse. This earned him giggles from the boy.

"Pretty clothes are like a pretty saddle, but it is the animal you ride that matters."

The boy cocked his head to the side. "But what about fighting for money? Mama said the elves pay lots to have orcs fight for them and that I should get good at fighting so they'll pay me lots when I'm older."

Batugei smiled. Some of the coin he'd given to Radnatani was from mercenary work. "True, but when you get coin, you can only spend it. There -- and then gone. A goat, you can milk and then milk it each day after. It can mate and make more goats. You can slaughter it for meat and hide. It is wealth that makes more wealth, better wealth than coins. An orc with only coins is poorer than an orc with only goats. People know your mother is rich because she owns so many animals, not because of her pretty clothes."

The boy idly picked at the loose thread, chewing his lip. Batugei withdrew a piece of hard cheese from a pouch at the north of his belt, broke off a piece for the boy, and then snacked on the rest.

"Cehn I haf-" The boy swallowed and spoke again. "Can I have a bunch of animals some day?"

"You might," he replied, grinning. "If you are strong and wise and lucky. But men do not herd. They craft and fight. You will have a woman, like Radnatani, who will take your animals and raise them. They are good at looking after many. Men look after one, and that favored animal will be your truest wealth. Then you, and she, will be rich and you can sew her very pretty clothes and she will be very happy."

The boy frowned at something, then looked up at Batugei. "But will I be happy?"

"If she is, then you will be," said Batugei with a sigh. "It is the way of things."

"I don't think Mama looks very happy right now," said the boy, pointing.

Radnatani was stomping over, expression fierce, all while Nokai jogged to keep up.

"How did--" was as far as Batugei got.

"That dwarf has sucked the marrow from my bones! Go! Be useful and take something from the Hatagins," she barked while making shooing motions.

Nokai whispered something and the head woman spun around, adding, "And take Berkedai with you! I will geld him if I hear any whining right now!"

Batugei shot the boy a wink and then called back, "I will bring you back a fat steer and the Hatagins will chew grass in their fury. Then you will be smiling again."

Radnatani snorted. "You want me to smile? Bring me a bull I can breed. Or a rhino. We have too few rhinos. Now go!"

Batugei whistled, a high, piercing sound. Off in the northern pasture a zebra raised its head, the beads woven into its mane catching the sunlight. A second whistle and it came trotting over.

As he gathered his gear, Batugei grinned and said in a low voice to the boy, "When the woman is happy, you will be happy. And when the woman is mad, you will leave, and you will be happy. Just be sure you make her happy when you come home and all is well."

"But what if you can't find a rhino when you come back?" asked the boy.

The grin widened. "That's when you go fight for the elves or drive a wagon for coin. After a few seasons gone, the women will be happy you are home, rhino or no rhino."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The orcs of Amalgam don't use egocentric directions (e.g. left, right), instead using cardinal directions (e.g. north, south) to explain relative positions. This might seem pretty out-there but it is a real (if rare) feature of [some languages here on Earth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Body_relative_direction#Cultures_without_relative_directions).
> 
> If an orc is ever speaking of a hypothetical where orientation isn't known, they assume a northern facing by default.
> 
> Also, this chapter might seem familiar to people who have already read the [Introductory Vignettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775092/chapters/39363619). Most of those are going into this work here as bits of backstory, reworked in places to reflect changes made in the 18 months since those vignettes were first written. So if you've read those vignettes already, you have some insight into who is coming. And if you haven't read them, well, it's a place to get a sneak peek of some upcoming content.


	6. Hilltop Vigil

> _The whelp asked the elder what a god was. She explained to him that a god was to people what a cowherd was to her cattle._
> 
> _The whelp then asked if the gods slaughtered people as we slaughter cows. The elder answered that they did, but where a person cuts a cow’s throat with a knife, the gods use bad luck to cull their herds._
> 
> _‘That is why you should make your offerings and answer when your shaman calls’, said the elder. The whelp asked why, unhappy with this truth._
> 
> _The elder answered with a question of her own. ‘If you have two cows, one of good temperament and full udders, and one that kicks and never fills the pail, which one do you butcher first?’_

\- Excerpt from the Parable of the Whelp and the Elder

* * *

Riding south-by-south-east, Batugei steered his zebra toward the rise where five wagons and a Bonnie were waiting. His time spent with the herders had been enjoyable, but after the satisfaction of food and conversation had passed, the ache of being away from his people was all the sharper. In the caravan, he was the orc among halflings, but there he was the Daguur among Burde.

That the Burde and Manggud herders quarrelled incessantly --especially after some sort of tavern dispute had occurred-- was another reason Batugei hadn't delayed when Shona had sent for him.

Sudal was trotting lightly, clearly pleased with his time among the Burde zebras. His mane also clacked with a few more beads added to it, Batugei's reward to his favored animal for performing well in several competitions over their visit.

Batugei gave his mount an affectionate pat along shoulder and neck before unlatching a pouch on his west side and pulling free a piece of hard cheese. Sudal, hearing this, twisted his head to the side and fixed Batugei with an expectant look.

"Radnatani warned me that I spoil you," answered Batugei warmly before freeing a handful of salt-laced millet from a pouch on his east side. He leaned forward so his mount could snatch the feed up, the orc receiving a lick across the palm as Sudal made sure no salt went to waste.

Sudal was shameless in his attempts to wheedle that particular treat out of him whenever the zebra caught the scent of it.

He guided Sudal with his knees as he unclasped a small knife from his belt and carved a long sliver free of the cheese block. It was known to the Daguur that an orc would dull his teeth eating cheese directly from the block so Batugei always ate it in slices.

Not wanting to ascend the hill directly, Sudal kept pulling westward. A pleased Sudal was energetic, but also willful. To assert dominance, Batugei squeezed with his knees and gave a call of 'Kya!' urging Sudal into a faster trot. That saw them back on course, the wagons coming into view.

Bonnie paced the perimeter like a caged lion. She was short, though not by halfling standards, her eyes being about level with the top of the provision barrels hauled along in the wagons. Her hair was a bright blonde, with no brown in the mix, and Batugei was pleased to see she’d foregone her ponytail, leaving her hair in its familiar chaos. Her skin was pale and freckled. Sharp green eyes stared --or, as was currently the case, glowered-- at the world and she had lips that smirked easily.

While she was child-sized, her build was more like a miniature adult, namely one that was nimble and fit. Her clothing was rarely bright but she often compensated with contrasting colors. She almost always wore protective leather across her midsection and top; today was no exception. Knives were visible at her hips, as well as a pair of pouches.

Her boots were dusty from her pacing, the child-sized warrior radiating frustration as she went.

It reminded Batugei of some of the youths back home when they'd returned empty-handed after a failed raid. Bonnie was no thirteen-year-old orc, restless with newly-acquired adulthood, but the same remedies should apply.

"Hey," said Bonnie as she moved closer. "Are we leaving this gog-dropping of a town?" She glanced around past Batugei, standing on her toes so she could better look for others coming. She'd been sent to this place yesterday and was clearly eager to be done with it.

Batugei shook his head, slowing Sudal to a walk as they continued toward the wagons. "No. Shona has some business remaining, so it will be at least another day."

The halfling gave a growl of frustration that ended as a moan, a hand running through her hair in agitation.

"She's just dragging ass so I'll be stuck stewing out here for longer," snapped the blonde warrior. "That bitch," she added, kicking a rock north-east and sending it bouncing down the slope in the direction of the town.

Halflings were fast despite their short legs, but this was accomplished with a movement that was half-jogging, half-skipping. It required restraint on Batugei's part not to laugh at the sight of it and now was no exception as Bonnie skip-jogged after as he approached the wagons and dismounted.

After seeing to Sudal's needs, the orc asked, "Has anything happened while you've been on watch? The Manggud heard troll-calls as they approached Hirata, and the Burde claimed to have lost a heifer to daibos."

They'd actually blamed the loss on the Manggud, but no orc would butcher an animal in the field and flee with the meat when they could have added the live animal to their herd instead.

Bonnie thrust her arms in the air. "No! Not a damned thing has happened! I heard an obo out in the woods, I saw a carrow fly by at dusk, and every time the wind changes I get a whiff of curdled milk because you people drink the nastiest godsdamned stuff in Creation!"

"If you soak the cloth in-" offered Batugei but he was interrupted.

"It's not the clothes! I changed!"

Batugei's chuckle grew into an actual laugh as Bonnie's face scrunched up in outrage. He raised his hands in a conciliatory manner before he could further prick the woman's pride, and then gestured to the bundle he'd brought on the back of Sudal's saddle. "Fortunately I know something that will help with that."

It was known to the Daguur to never tempt a hippo to violence or a woman to anger. It was also known not to compare the two where a woman might hear you.

Curiosity replaced anger. Boredom was worse than tsetse flies to a halfling nomad like Bonnie, who flitted about as Batugei removed and opened the bundle.

The nomad blinked owlishly. "A bloody lamb shank?" Bonnie looked up at Batugei incredulously. "If you expect me to rub that on my skin--"

"A hock of goat," corrected Batugei. "And I expect you to go and build a fire."

She looked about to object further when Batugei added, "Unless you have something else to be doing."

Bonnie's mouth closed and she nodded. "Right. I'll just go do that, then."

* * *

The fire was crackling, the hock roasted, and Batugei cut two sizzling portions free to eat, offering the first to Bonnie. All that was left over the fire was bone, sinew, fat, and gristle, which Bonnie started to dispose of until Batugei intervened. Instead he dropped the remains into the fire and stacked up more wood, stoking the flames so that they'd burn hot and clean.

While they waited, the two took turns watching the area. Bonnie showed Batugei a creek which he led Sudal to when the zebra grew thirsty. At the very edge of Batugei's vision he could see a caravan approaching from the south. Given the winding route up the forested southern slope, it was unlikely it'd reach the hilltop until close to dusk.

Finally Batugei deemed the offering ready, gesturing Bonnie over to the smouldering ashes of their fire. Using a stick, he fished the charred bone out, taking care not to scatter the ash in the process.

"See these?" and he pointed with the stick to the cracks in the leg bone. "These are from the spirits; they are greedy and gnaw even when all the flesh is burnt away."

"I thought you orcs worshiped a sky god," said Bonnie, giving the bone a poke with her own stick for good measure.

Batugei gave her an easy grin. He'd always enjoyed teaching the whelps back home and Bonnie was the right height for an orc of three or four. "Fngri rides the skies as an orc rides the savanna, but an offering like this is too small a morsel to catch his notice. No, this is for the spirits of this place. Please them and you breed luck. Displease them and you breed misfortune. There was misfortune in town, yes?"

The extended silence from Bonnie was answer enough.

"Now there will be less. The spirits are fickle but everything likes to be fed. We have fed the spirits of misfortune and now they will sleep. May they wake only after we are beyond the horizon," and his grin remained even as Bonnie looked unconvinced.

Wisdom was wisdom even if others failed to recognize it.

"Okay, but are the spirits going to help with the milk smell too?" She gave the bone another poke.

"No, but this will," and he used the flat of his knife to sweep some powdery ash into the palm of his hand, a few deft flicks sending any embers back into the fire. He rubbed the warm powder between his hands, then made a washing motion to coat the back of his hands and swaths of his forearms.

Bonnie gawked at the ashen orc.

"The powder swallows scents," explained Batugei like he was lecturing a whelp. "It also absorbs oils that are hard to rinse free with water. And the grit removes filth from the skin."

Slowly, Bonnie held out her cupped hand for Batugei to sweep a small measure of ash into it. A little tentatively at first, she imitated his rinsing motions, coating small hands and thin but deceptively strong arms.

She leaned down and sniffed her arm. She blinked and gave a pleasantly surprised bob of her head. Then she cocked her head to the side and asked, "Right, but now I'm covered ash. Isn't that just trading one kind of dirty for another?"

Batugei then unhitched a waterskin from his belt. "Now we wash," and he took care to keep the smirk from his face as he sprinkled water into Bonnie's cupped palms.

The halfling started to rinse, then went wide-eyed as the cleansing burn of wet ash was felt, and finally gave a cry of alarm. "Téigh's tit! Get this stuff off me!"

Batugei laughed as he poured more from his waterskin, adding, "The ash gnaws at the skin but it’ll release its bite with enough water."

Bonnie washed with almost comedic haste but was gracious enough to pour the skin for Batugei's benefit when she was done. And, as though her frustration had been scrubbed free as well, she was noticeably happier than when Batugei and Sudal had arrived.

Batugei saddled Sudal, promising Bonnie he would return in the morning. He rode back toward town so he could report to Shona that all was well with Bonnie and the wagons, and he felt his ache for home lessened.

Batugei had left the Daguur because the shame gnawing at his marrow could not be ignored, because he needed wisdom his people did not have. He had not found his answers yet, but at least the spirits of his guilt were satisfied with this offering and slept, leaving him his contentment.

As Sudal walked carefully down the slope, he twisted his head to the side and fixed Batugei with an expectant look.

Batugei laughed, going to the pouch on his west side and gathering some salted millet. "I am glad you have your comforts as well," he said as he leaned forward so his palm could be emptied by insistent zebra lips.

* * *

It was the following morning and Batugei was once more riding south-by-south-east. He hummed thoughtfully as he half-studied the hill ahead. The other half of his attention was trained on the halfling nomad shifting awkwardly in front of him: Deaglán of Barlow was a poor rider and on too-large of a mount as well.

From the way Sudal's ears kept threatening to lower, it was clear the zebra thought little of the small passenger on his back... though much would be forgiven if Deaglán offered Sudal the other half of the apple he'd given him before being lifted into the saddle.

"I hope Bonnie's not too upset still," wished Deaglán as he gripped Sudal's beaded mane awkwardly. "Shona threatening to make her walk like that, it--" He fidgeted and Sudal's east ear twitched in annoyance. "That's not going to sit well. Not with Bonnie."

Batugei had only hired himself onto Shona's caravan a few weeks ago, so he wasn't aware of any specific incident Deaglán might be referencing. However, he suspected that Bonnie's anger was as quick to settle as to rise. "She will certainly be pleased for the company," he said instead.

This helped Deaglán shift less in the saddle --"Yeah, you're right."-- and Sudal's ears rose to a happier level, a measure of harmony returning to Batugei's modest herd of the moment.

When they arrived, they found Bonnie sitting atop the canvas cover to one of the wagons. Were Batugei to attempt the same, his bulk would rip the fabric free of the frame, but for a halfling it was a convenient and elevated point to sit and watch.

It was also something Shona disliked given that it sometimes caused sags in the canvas. Batugei assumed that was also part of the appeal for Bonnie.

"Hey Deag. Batugei." Bonnie spared them a glance but otherwise kept her gaze trained on the edge of the sparse forest clinging to the hilltop. "Is Shona finally done wasting everyone's time so we can go?" The blonde nomad's words were biting, but not her tone. Then more sharply she added, "The wind is blowing the smell of goats up from the orc camps. I hate that smell."

Batugei helped Deaglán down to the ground, receiving a thanks in return, then dismounted himself. "Shona told everyone to be ready for--"

Sudal impatiently nudged the halfling, causing Deaglán to stagger forward for balance. He twisted northward, confusion giving way to understanding and he fished the remaining apple half out of his vest. Sudal eagerly gobbled it up.

"She said we'd be on the trail by elevenses," he finished.

Batugei followed Bonnie's gaze to the southwest. "What do you see?" he asked a moment later.

"A group of three was prowling around the woods earlier: two wanderers with either an orc or a big human," she answered. "Hard to tell given the lighting."

That was probably true for halfling eyes, but Batugei would scold an orc who couldn't tell the difference between a hunter and a human at dawn. There was the smoke from several small campfires on the opposite side of the hill, so he asked, "From the other caravan?"

It was possible an animal had wandered off in the night, and a corner of Batugei was already planning how best to claim the beast if they found it first. It would be easier if Shona had left the horses with the wagons instead of stabling them in town, but he could--

"There's another caravan?!" exclaimed Deaglán. With that skipping jog, he started to head southward. "Let's go see who it is!"

Bonnie looked at the nomad with obvious fondness and then sprung from her vantage atop the caravan cover, dropping ten feet to the ground and landing in a short roll before springing back up, already jogging after her companion. It made Batugei's legs hurt just to look at it, but falls meant more to the rhino than to the mouse.

Batugei turned to Sudal, raising his eastern hand and making a twisting motion twice. "[Watch,]" he commanded in Khel. His mount pawed the ground in response like he'd been trained; he would remain behind and bray loudly if anyone tried to approach. That accomplished, Batugei turned and hustled to catch up with the others.

It was halfway across the hilltop that they stopped: Bonnie and Batugei, because they noticed movement from the woods, Deaglán, because the others had halted and turned to look southeast.

"[Kin,]" called out a deep voice. The accent was Khalmykean but that dialect had not strayed so far from Khel for a greeting like that to be mistaken.

"[Kin,]" answered Batugei, an easy smile rising to his lips.

The halflings looked to him uncomprehendingly.

"He says ‘hello’ and that he means us no harm," explained the orc.

"That's a lot to get from one word," snarked Bonnie.

A short time later a hunter and two nomads emerged from the undergrowth.

"Fan's sack, that's Padraic Twomey!" exclaimed Deaglán.

One of the nomads looked momentarily surprised before recognition lit up his face. "Deaglán? Deaglán!" The two approached and hugged, Padraic pulling back and saying, "The road is long-"

"-But always circles back on itself," finished Deaglán with an ear-to-ear grin.

Batugei tucked the expression away, always eager to sample the wisdom of others.

"And who's this--" // "I don't think I know your--" started the pair before stopping with a shared laugh.

Padraic gestured to the other nomad and said, "This here's Dahey. Dahey, this is Deaglán, who knows every wanderer in Creation and is personal friends with most of 'em."

"Half, tops," answered Deaglán in easy humor, offering Dahey a hearty handshake before pivoting northward and gesturing to his companion. "This is Bonnie. Shona's caravan has never been safer with her looking after it. She's funny too. She's from all the way out at Ballinack, if you can believe it. Padraic I know from the old stead. His ma and mine quilt together twice a week, sure as sunrise."

Both Bonnie and Padraic seemed a bit embarrassed at their homes being brought up. Now that Batugei thought of it, Deaglán was the only nomad he could think of who regularly spoke of where he'd come from.

"I don't suppose you've been back to Barlow lately, have you, Paddy?" and there was a hungry cast to Deaglán's features.

Padraic rubbed the back of his head, looking chagrined. "Eh, I don't much get by Barlow these days. I--"

Deaglán interrupted. "It's only, I ran into Róisín probably three months ago-- You remember her, right? Orlagh Cantlon's gal? She's in Fearghal's caravan. Anyway, hers was the last news I'd heard from Barlow and she couldn't say if my ma's palsy was getting better or not. I told her, my ma, I mean, to go see the traveling Earrach priests next time they went through, made sure she had enough coin for a donation too, but you know she's not as mobile as she used to be and--"

Batugei turned his attention away from the small ones, offering the hunter to his south an amused eye roll at their antics.

The hunter's clothing was loose and colorful, but kept close to his body with knots of horse hair. He was a darker shade of green than Batugei, but with less brown in the mix. Between that and the Khalmykean, he was almost certainly from a southern herd. He had his hair trimmed very short save for a single long braid extending down past his shoulders -- a fierce look, but austere; Batugei much preferred his bead-decorated locks instead.

Still, when Batugei had been young like the hunter, he'd gone out of his way to look fierce too.

The hunter stepped in close, arms running under Batugei's and clasping his elbows while Batugei, as the elder orc, gripped the other's arms just below the shoulder. "[Peace and health,]" they said to each other, the words sounding strange in the other's dialect.

"[Hulagu of the Aatiinchin,]" the hunter introduced.

"[Batugei of the Daguur,]" he answered back. "[What are you hunting?]" he asked while beside them the small ones gabbled on.

Hulagu answered but it took two repetitions before Batugei could understand it. "[I need to capture a sho-bakemono. The head woman of Hirata needs one to cull.]"

The 'head woman' of Hirata probably meant the magistrate, the best Hulagu could approximate given their gulf in dialects... Though the magistrate was certainly not female given that the hobs were foolish and did not let their women rule. And given the context, 'cull' probably meant execute.

Batugei was about to ask more when Hulagu added, "[Samurai's word. He hunts dai-bakemono to the south. Made us saddle his horse.]"

The expression was 'made us saddle his zebra' where Batugei was from, but the meaning was clear: the infamous samurai of Hirata province had forced Hulagu's caravan to finish his chore for him, namely bringing a shobo to Hirata to stand before the magistrate.

"[Your sho-bakemono escaped?]" Once more it took Batugei several tries to be sure he was understood.

"[Chewed wooden collar,]" and he mimed biting at something on his wrists. Probably not a collar then. Unconcerned, Hulagu gave a one-shoulder shrug. "[If you kill an antelope, you were hunting antelope.]" 

Batugei puzzled this over for a heartbeat and then laughed: so long as Hulagu's caravan brought _a_ shobo, they'd be able to claim it was the right one all along. It was a good expression, witty, and Batugei made an effort to remember it for future use.

"[I haven't seen any sho-bakemono droppings, but there is always one living near if--]"

Something the nomads said cut through the orcs' attention, Batugei and Hulagu both turning west to listen.

"-settlers are gathering like mad," proclaimed Dahey. "We passed four groups heading here."

An orc could be friends with nomads like Deaglán and Bonnie, and the halfling cottars were harmless enough if they weren't farming part of your herd's savanna, but there wasn't an orc herd out there that hadn't fought bitterly with settlers. If this group was heading for Daguur lands, Batugei would have to return home and ready warriors.

That Hulagu had the same reaction spoke well of his honor.

Bonnie gave a toothy grin. "I've never traveled with settlers before but I've heard it's a ride and a half. Sex seven meals a day."

"And twice more for dessert," added Padraic with a lascivious wink. "We'll be trying to join up with them after we put Hirata behind us. You should too. Like Dahey said, it's a bumper crop, settlers from more than two dozen different steads all gathering up 'fore they set out."

"Where are they headed?" asked Deaglán and each of the orcs leaned a little closer.

Padraic shrugged. "Somewhere on the other side of Kings' Pass is all I've heard."

Batugei and Hulagu both relaxed. If there were herds living south of the mountains, they weren't kin to either the Daguur or the Aatiinchin.

Deaglán startled in surprise, inhaling some spit and suffering a brief coughing fit.

In contrast, Bonnie seemed even more interested. "I've always wanted to see Kings' Pass."

Deaglán managed to recover, crying, "But the dragon! And the zombies!"

Padraic smirked and elbowed Dahey. "Yeah, that's Deaglán for you. Softer than a feather bed, that one." Waving Deaglán's objection aside, he said, "That dragon hasn't been seen in ages. It's probably dead."

Bonnie jumped in, adding, "And zombies are nothing, Deag. I've put down a few and didn't even work up an appetite doing it."

Dahey said, "All I know is they've got some spiralist in charge so they're certain to want some distance between them and the Khanate."

"A spiralist? Well, that'll make Eithne an easy sell," declared Bonnie, pleased.

Deaglán still looked a little unhappy but didn't raise further objections.

There was a rustling in the underbrush to the northwest, both orc's heads snapping around to look.

"[We can help you hunt,]" offered Batugei, speaking slowly and a little louder than he would to a fellow Khel speaker.

Hulagu gave another one-shoulder shrug --that must be a common gesture in his herd because it looked strange in Batugei's eyes-- and said, "[Three find as good as six.]" A pause. "[Are you hunting as well?]"

Batugei gave a toothy grin and answered, "[We were hunting the horse you lost,]" casually admitting that he'd have walked off with their animal if that's what they'd been looking for.

The hunter squinted at him for a second, mouthed Batugei's words to himself, then laughed in amusement at the jest. A woman would find little funny about the joke, but the men were expected to go cattle raiding too often for them not to make light of it.

Expression growing serious, Hulagu said, "[We move to hunt. Good grazing to the Daguur,]" his accent thick.

"[Good grazing to the Aatiinchin,]" answered Batugei, patting the hunter's west shoulder as he did.

The nomads seemed content to talk further but Hulagu placed a hand on Dahey and Padraic's heads. "We must go. Catriona expects a shobo. We bring a shobo."

Mention of this Catriona was enough to sober the other two. Deaglán insisted on several more rounds of farewells, as well as extracting a promise from the nomads to pass on news from Barlow if they heard any, but after that the two parties separated.

"It turns out they weren't desperate rock thieves after all," drawled Bonnie as the three of them headed northward towards the wagons. "I'd call Shona a dumb bitch if it weren't calling water wet."

"It's okay, Bonnie," answered Deaglán. "I'll stay here with you while we wait for the others to catch up. Elevenses isn't that far off."

Bonnie gave a noncommittal grunt but a few paces later she said, "Thanks Deag." She pulled the leaves of a bush aside so the other two could pass through. "Oh, and be sure not to sleep in the wagon Séamus drives. I heard some mice scratching around in the smuggler's compartment last night."

Batugei knew that at least two of the wagons --Connor’s and Séamus'-- had spaces that could be hidden by a false top to keep valuables out of sight. He suspected there was one in Shona's wagon used to keep the caravan's wealth, though he was no thief to skulk around for such things.

"Oh, okay. Actually, some of the rocks they quarry here are good as rat poison," said Deaglán. "I'm pretty sure Connor bought some since there's always demand for it in the steads. I'll see if there's any and sprinkle some around."

"You're a good guy, Deag," said Bonnie, earning a pleased smile from her friend. "But don't worry, I'll teach you better one of these days."

Batugei laughed, Deaglán joining in a heartbeat later. It wasn't even noon and today had been a feast of wordplay. Now, if only he could find someone who spoke proper Khel.

"[Rest,]" called out Batugei as soon as Sudal came into view, giving the command so that his zebra wouldn't bray at their approach.

At least he had Sudal to talk to.

“[And your accent is much easier to understand,]” added the orc affectionately as he patted his mount’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mellow couple of chapters to introduce Batugei's POV. I doubt things will remain so chill for too much longer.
> 
> Also, the use of ash as a cleansing agent/disinfectant is a real, historical practice. There's a [good video covering it here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j30HOdWJ5gE&feature=youtu.be&t=480), if you're curious. The link jumps you to the demonstration, but the skipped part is interesting as well as it gets into the science and history behind it.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	7. A Well-Laid Raid (Batugei's Past)

> _Bravery : to hold the line while being charged by orcs._
> 
> _Stupidity : to hold the line when the orc charging you is a bayatur._

Excerpt from _A Treatise on Practical Cowardice_ (banned by the Khan’s decree)

* * *

Three orcs rode north, two astride horses that were flanking the one zebra-rider in the middle. A large wolf padded alongside the easternmost rider, a fact which made the horse beneath wary. The westernmost rider was speaking. Loudly.

"—my Khurdan can outpace any zebra," boasted Berkedai, the barrel-chested orc sitting high in the saddle atop his horse. Where many orcs favored a large, powerful weapon to intimidate and end fights swiftly, Berkedai had dozens of knives strapped to him, some for throwing, some for carving, and others, long knives that edged into being swords, for melee.

Batugei hadn't had the heart to tell him his trade knives had sold so poorly. Instead, he gave Sudal's beaded mane an affectionate pat and said, "My Sudal can run longer than your Khurdan. You would escape only to be caught a short time after, your mount too fatigued to fight. Plus, the flies bite zebras less than horses."

"Yes, because zebras are sour in taste and temperament," replied Berkedai. "My Khurdan never bites or kicks unless told to. We all remember the welts you had breaking in Sudal." The brown-skinned orc chuckled.

Batugei laughed as well, head and shoulders bobbing in time to Sudal's movement underneath. They were riding for the Hatagins' southern pastures and would have to be quiet soon. But for now, the old, old argument between zebra-rider and horse-rider could continue. "It means he is more spirited in a fight. Wouldn't you agree, Buqa?"

Berkedai and Batugei turned to their east to look at the orc riding silently beside them. The hunter was the color of grass and had a prominent chin. A scar deepened the natural cleft in the chin, a scar which continued down to his collarbone and under his clothes. He was only recently recovered enough to go raiding and, despite his natural reticence, was eager to be out again.

It was several slow heartbeats before the laconic orc said, "I think Khargis would eat either if allowed."

The large wolf padding beside Buqa's borrowed mount panted, teeth visible for all as if to underline the point.

Then Buqa pointed north-west, the keen-eyed hunter spotting something.

Rhinos.

All at once the three orcs went silent and rode lower in the saddle, trying to present a smaller profile against any women who might be herding the crash of rhinos.

As the group ahead became clearer, Batugei watched intently, a plan forming. The men had fewer ranks separating them than the women did, but by unspoken agreement Batugei was in charge.

If nothing else, Radnatani would blame him if the raid was a failure.

"Buqa, send Khargis ahead. There are calves, so the crash will close in to protect them," said Batugei. "Then we'll spot any women present, drive them off, and—"

The words died in his throat as Khargis growled. All turned west, following the wolf's gaze, and saw—

"Spirits strike me," muttered Batugei.

The silhouette of a bayatur was unmistakable, shoulders half again as broad as a normal orc’s, with an upper body like a slab of muscle. That this one was astride a terror bird that was sprinting at them faster than even a horse could run? It meant this raid had just turned very sour very fast.

Berkedai went for his knives. "Do we fight?"

Buqa favored spear and javelins, good for bringing prey down from a distance, not that it had saved him from being gashed across face and body during his last, ill-fated hunt.

Batugei shook his head, hands raising up, palms out so that the bayatur could see his surrender. "No. We fight only if he makes it a fight." He cracked a grin and said before a sardonic laugh, "Though I am comforted by the fact that if we must run, my dear Sudal will tire last."

Berkedai picked up the laugh but Buqa only glared ahead in wary silence.

The bayatur slowed his mount to a stop fifteen yards to their west. He was greenish-brown and huge in a way only a bayatur could be. Were he to dismount and they stay atop theirs, he would probably be able to look them in the eyes.

His terror bird was of a breed built for size, as it would have to be to carry a bayatur on its back. It started with long-taloned claws rising up to a body that was a whirl of brown, blue, and red feathers. A long neck extended up, the bird probably able to peer over an elephant's shoulder if needed. The neck ended with a massive, hooked beak between two solid black eyes, its gaze intense and hungry. The blue-red feathers were further decorated with metal discs that would flutter in the wind when it ran.

Terror birds weren't native to this region and were therefore expensive, but the Hatagins were wealthy. They would have to be to feed a bayatur outside of the mating seasons.

"Three Daguur whelps sniffing around," said the bayatur with a voice as deep as a bull's.

Batugei smiled, arms still upraised. "And a Hatagins bayatur here to greet us. We didn't expect such hospitality."

The bayatur scowled, probably buying him time to digest Batugei's words. If an orc gorged himself on meat long enough, he could transform into a bayatur. He would grow larger, stronger, tougher, and capable of fighting with a rage and tenacity that made their race legendary on the battlefield. However, he would grow ravenous, stupider, and more impulsive in the process.

Batugei had undergone the transformation a few times himself. He enjoyed the rush of it, but found he missed his wits after the fact.

"What are you doing here?" barked the bayatur after a long second's thought, an axe so large it looked like a hob back-banner visible over his shoulders.

Batugei kept his smile firmly in place, his gestures slow and well clear of his weapons. Bayaturs needed little provocation to resort to violence. "A bull sat in a nettle and ran off. We were sent to return him since our women feared your warriors."

The bayatur nodded and his massive shoulders lowered a touch. The pride swelled even more than the muscles in a bayatur.

"Either the bull has gone into your lands, and is yours, or we have lost his trail and must double-back to find it. Either way, we will be going," said Batugei with as much ease as he could muster.

The bayatur shook his head; it appeared he wasn't that dumb. "Like you say, if the bull enters our lands, it is ours. You are on Hatagins land now. Give me your beasts."

Buqa and Berkedai's hands both inched closer to their weapons.

"Surely you don't mean to take a favored animal from his orc?" said Batugei, his own hands itching for the hilt of the greatsword slung across his back.

The bayatur paused long enough in replying that Batugei jumped back in, saying, "Everyone speaks of how wealthy the Hatagins are, but if they are stealing favored animals then the talk must be lies. Are the Hatagins so poor and honorless that they would shame themselves before all the other orcs of the Great Savanna?"

The bayatur blinked and scowled. Then he said in that basso voice of his, "You can keep your favored animals. Any who speak poorly of Hatagins honor will pay for their lies."

That was enough to slice through the mounting tension. With Sudal, Khurdan, and Khargis safe, the three had much less reason to fight. Orcs and animals combined could probably have brought down the bayatur, mount and all, but it'd be an iffy thing. Certainly not worth possession of a single horse.

Buqa dismounted. With a gesture from its master, Khargis heeled. Then the orc led the mount slowly over to a thick bit of scrub and tied the reins firmly. The bayatur would claim it after they'd left, when the risk of an ambush was passed.

The three turned and headed due south, Buqa climbing onto the back of Khurdan while Khargis loped alongside. Orcs, as a rule, were stronger than the other races even before bayaturs were taken into account. Unlike the humans, however, they couldn't jog endlessly, being built for power over stamina. Buqa was a hunter, his favored animal a wolf instead of a steed of some kind, so he was used to long stretches afoot, but it was best to get clear from the area quickly.

Once they were several miles away, Berkedai growled, "Running into a bayatur on patrol? Have one of you spited a god or insulted a spirit? I have always made my burnt offerings and didn't ask to breed my good luck with your bad."

Buqa shook his head, prominent chin scraping the back of Berkedai’s gambeson. "He was taking his terror bird out to hunt, most like. It'd be snacking on their lambs if he didn't."

"Damn shame to lose the horse, though," muttered Berkedai.

All three nodded.

"Do we go back?"

The two on Khurdan's back looked west at Batugei.

The orc thought.

"I'm in no hurry to return," he said after a moment. "But I won't lead us into a raid without a plan. We were unlucky this time so we need to make some luck for the next or we tempt the gods to punish us for stubbornness. Worse, we tempt Radnatani."

That drew a response from the pair, even the reticent Buqa managing a chuckle.

Batugei continued. "I say we go for their western pasture. They won't expect it and it's nearer the river so it's probably where the wealthier women graze their herds."

"But how will we get there unnoticed?" asked Berkedai.

Buqa cleared his throat. "I know a way," adding a few heartbeats later, "But it is not pleasant."

* * *

There weren't many trees on the Great Savanna, and few forests. This one, a devil's garden, was one of the exceptions. Only one type of tree grew in a devil's garden, and those trees were nests for lemon ants. Any animal that tried to eat the leaves would be bitten as surely as if they had thrust their nose into an anthill. Anything taller than a blade of grass that tried to grow there would be beset by a tiny but relentless army so as not to challenge the growth of more nest-trees.

A few lizards which consumed the ants lived there, but for everything else, the devil's garden may as well have been a desert. Just walking through meant stepping lightly or the lemon ants would have a chance to swarm up boot and hoof alike.

The three of them made sure to feed and water their animals before entering, because there would be no resting within.

Sure enough, after an exhausting span of travel through endless, repeating forest, they emerged onto a bluff overlooking the Hatagins' western pasture.

Not for the first time, Batugei was grateful his people had a very good sense of direction.

Below, cattle grazed. But what truly drew the eye was the pair of elephants overlooking them. A woman sat on the back of an adult female, lounging in a howdah with fabric in place to ward off the flies. A smaller male elephant, a bull but barely, lingered nearby.

"I think I know what would make Radnatani forgive us a lost horse," said Batugei with an enormous grin.

* * *

Berkedai had wanted to round up the entire herd of cattle and capture the woman for ransom. He was young, only two years an adult at fifteen, and high on the thrill of victory.

Batugei, however, was twenty-two, and could expect to be feeling the weight of age on him in a few short years. He had cultivated wisdom from experience rather than merely scars, and pointed out that driving more than thirty head of cattle would be slow with only two riders, elephants or no. Slow enough they would likely be caught. And any female owning an elephant was a female that would pay you her ransom with a vendetta to match.

If a Hatagins bayatur slew them in the following season, Radnatani would accept diya —blood money— in payment rather than start a feud. You didn't become the head woman without knowing how best to cull a herd.

Instead, they tied up the woman in her howdah and drove off the sho-bakemonos assisting her, all without inflicting any real injuries. They took the bull and the five best cattle from the herd: enough to profit, but not enough to anger the Hatagins into retaliation.

The bull proved willful, and Buqa was more a hunter than a rider, so he mounted Sudal instead. As such they rode into the village right as the sun was mating with the horizon, Batugei astride the bull and the cattle driven before them.

Cries of surprise soon became cheers as the entire village came out to see.

Radnatani was waiting for him when he climbed down from the elephant.

"I'm sorry," Batugei was quick to say before the head woman could speak.

She looked surprised at his words.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "for I said I would bring you a rhino." His smile was bright as the sun at noon.

Radnatani laughed. "I ask for a rhino and you bring me an elephant?! Now I am sorry I didn't demand a triceratops!"

"Then I would have to bring you a dragon, and the kobolds would invade to get their god back." Batugei patted the bull's flank. "Too much hassle, I think. You were wise to ask for a rhino after all."

Radnatani laughed again then said loudly to one of her daughters, "Fetch a steer for slaughter. We feast in celebration!" Her declaration was met with cheers from across the village.

Then Radnatani drew Batugei by the hand, her yurt visible in the distance. "You, come with me."

Batugei went unresisting, but he did speak loud enough to be certain the others heard. "And Berkedai and Buqa? I would not have them gnawing bones while I feast."

Radnatani waved him off. "They may gnaw on my sisters, and if they are foolish enough to call them bones, we will have two fewer men to share the meat with." The laugh from the crowd became whistles as Buqa and Berkedai were each led toward a yurt not their own.

"Besides," added Radnatani. "Mating season approaches, and all of the women agree that you desperately need the practice, Batugei."

This was met with howls of laughter from men and women alike.

"For any women interested in instructing, my yurt is over there," replied Batugei as he was led onward. "Though I may not be sleeping there tonight."

"You won't be sleeping at all tonight if I have my say." And with that Radnatani pushed him through the flap onto the furs and blankets within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite having a very evocative name for a fantasy setting, a [devil's garden](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devil%27s_garden) is a real thing. While lemon ants are a step up from actual devils, I still wouldn't want to go wandering in one.
> 
> A reader requested a pronunciation guide in a comment from an earlier chapter. I've assembled one here that is comprehensive up to Ch8. As a general guide, the source for most halfling names/towns/gods is from the Irish language, Irish history, or Irish folklore. Most things orc-related come similarly come from the Mongolian language, Mongolian history, etc. I hope this helps you fine folks to have an easier and/or more enjoyable time reading this story.
> 
> ### Halflings - Main Story
> 
> Bonnie Keogh (bohn-nee key-oh)  
> Shona (show-nuh)  
> Deaglán (day-glawn)  
> Eithne (en-ya)  
> Séamus (shay-mus)  
> Connor (cohn-er)  
> Anlon (on-lon)  
> Padraic Twomey (pawd-rik too-me)  
> Dahey (day-he)  
> Róisín (roe-sheen)  
> Orlagh Cantlon (or-la kant-lun)  
> Fearghal (fer-gull)  
> Catriona (cat-rio-nah)  
> Caoimhín (kwee-veen)
> 
> ### Halflings - Bonnie's Backstory
> 
> Maebh (mave)  
> Felim (fail-im)  
> Lorcan (lor-can)  
> Sinéad (shin-aid)  
> Ciara (key-rah)  
> Neasa (nes-sa)  
> Senan (sen-an)
> 
> ### Orcs (and their animals) - Main Story
> 
> Batugei (bah-too-guy)  
> Sudal (soo-dol), means 'Stripe' in Mongolian  
> Hulagu (hoo-lah-goo)  
> Khenbish (ken-bish)
> 
> ### Orcs (and their animals) and Sho-Bakemonos - Batugei's Backstory
> 
> Buqa (boo-kuh)  
> Radnatani (rad-nuh-ton-nee)  
> Berkedai (ber-kuh-die)  
> Nokai (no-kie)  
> Sorqaqtani (sor-koe-tahn-nee)  
> Khurdan (kerd-an), means ‘Fast’ in Mongolian  
> Khargis (kar-ghis), means ‘Fierce’ in Mongolian
> 
> ### Humans - Main Story
> 
> Yasmine Touati (yaz-min too-ah-tee)
> 
> ### Orcs Herds
> 
> Daguur (day-yer)  
> Burde (burd)  
> Manggud (mang-good)  
> Aatiinchin (ah-tin-chin)  
> Urungkhait (urng-kat)  
> Hatagins (hah-tah-gens)  
> Gotoruutan (goht-rue-tan)  
> Ak Olot (ahk oh-lot)
> 
> ### Gods
> 
> Máthair Mhór (maw-her wor), means 'Great Mother' in Irish  
> Samhradh (sow-ruh), means 'Summer' in Irish  
> Fómhar (foh-ver), means 'Fall' in Irish  
> Geimhreadh (geev-ruh), means 'Winter' in Irish  
> Earrach (eer-rah), means 'Spring' in Irish  
> Fngri (fen-gree)  
> Nammu (nah-moo)  
> Magog (muh-gog)  
> Fan (fahn), means 'Wait' or 'Stay' in Irish  
> Téigh (tayg), means 'Go' in Irish
> 
> ### Other
> 
> Tír Tairngire (shir tern-gih-ruh)  
> Bayatur (bay-tar), a male orc grown larger and stronger from increased meat consumption


	8. Recovery and Injury

> _If your fences are tall and your sisters are vigilant, cull the weak beasts from your herd for they will be feed poorly spent._
> 
> _If your fences are short and your sisters are lazy, it is unwise to cull. Then, when a wolf preys upon your flock, you lose only a lesser beast._

\- Orcish saying, attributed to the Gotoruutan herd

* * *

When a caravan hired an orc as a guard, it was with the unspoken expectation that they were also getting an animal handler and physician for the four-legged. There was the marrow of truth there —Batugei would be in very poor standing among the Daguur if he were unable to care for Sudal, and many lessons applied equally to horses and oxen— but sometimes the expectations grew too large to be saddled by reality.

"The horse's hoof is cracked," declared Batugei, towering above his audience now that he’d risen from his crouch.

Several sets of eyes looked at him expectantly. "And?" asked Connor, the nomad who owned both the horse in question and the wagon it had been hitched to.

Civilization was founded on animals: working them, riding them, milking them, butchering them. The orcs knew this truth better than any other, were wisest in the raising, breeding, and handling of animals. Batugei was proud of this fact, which made him a little remorseful when he failed to live up to these expectations even when they were exaggerated.

But he was a guard, not a wizened master of all subjects beast-related.

"And, until the hoof is healed, you will lame the animal if you make her pull a wagon," explained Batugei, already knowing the question to follow even as he was helpless to avoid it.

"Right, so how are you going to heal Nally here?"

And there it was.

Batugei sighed, his pride pricked even though he was wise enough to know this was no failing of his. "I am no priest, Connor. I cannot borrow the power of a god to mend her hoof. Nor am I an elf or kobold, who can command spirits of magic. If you unhitch Nally, I can tether her to Sudal so that she follows him: her eyesight is poor so he will lead her around any hazards while her hoof heals."

Connor's face scrunched up in an expression that looked to Batugei like an imitation of Shona's. It was intended to be commanding and a little disappointed —he had seen a look like that many times from Radnatani and her sisters over the years— but it was lacking in its imitation.

The nomad instead looked like he was trying not to break wind.

"Could your zebra pull the-"

 _"Absolutely not,"_ and Batugei was unable to keep the anger from his tone even though he managed not to raise his voice.

Many of the nomads flinched and some retreated a step. The expectations of skill came laden with baggage, not wholly undeserved, that Batugei would be simple-minded and of a violent temperament. He tried not to resent it, instead attempting to be a counterexample of calm and wit.

In a milder tone, he said, "Sudal is not a draft animal, but a mount. He has not the training, temperament, or breeding for that work."

_And I would sooner eat grass then see him fitted for a harness or yoke._

Connor's scowl shifted to something more authentic. "Far as I'm concerned, he's a horse with stripes. Hells, he's bigger than Tess and she pulls just fine," he said sourly, gesturing south to the uninjured horse still hitched to his wagon. "We all push when a wagon gets stuck in the mud, so your animal can—"

Shona chose that moment to intervene, saving her successor from his own inexperience. "This isn't the first cracked hoof in all of Creation, people. This is why the middle wagon only hauls baggage instead of heavy-ass cargo. Connor, go pick one of the horses off the baggage wagon as a substitute for Nally; whichever you think will quarrel least with Tess here. Everyone else, start moving the heaviest baggage to the other wagons so that it can be pulled one-horse. And move your asses; if you wanted to stand around, you should've been born a steader."

That got everyone moving, including Connor, who wasn't having an enjoyable time swallowing the rest of his words.

Batugei found little sympathy and didn't try to hunt for more.

He was heading northwest with the others to help lighten the wagon when he noticed Deaglán pushing southeast against the flow of bodies, eyes trained on Shona. Curiosity stirred, Batugei decided to see to the injured horse first, whistling for Sudal to join him.

"Hey, Shona?" said Deaglán after he'd squeezed past the others. "I had an idea I wanted to roll past you."

Shona was using a stick to scratch words into the dirt for the benefit of Séamus. The aged nomad was standing beside her and staring downward with a sour expression. He was deaf on top of being foul-tempered, and Shona was one of the few he acted civil towards.

The caravan master held up one hand to silence Deaglán, finishing her writing. Dropping the stick and popping a wad of tobacco into her mouth, she turned west to the younger nomad. "Yeah?" she prompted.

Batugei, meanwhile, whispered a few words of Khel to Sudal as he worked to tether zebra to horse.

"So, back home, my Ma's mule cracked a hoof turning a millstone," explained Deaglán. "Same thing had happened to our neighbor the harvest before and he'd paid Caoimhín the smith to make a metal sandal for his mule. See, he was rowing with the Fallons about mill fees and—"

"Deaglán, I know you're fond of the old stead," said Shona in a patient voice, "but try and stick to the point. This mule sandal?" she prompted.

Deaglán ducked his head in embarrassment. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Anyway, it was just a bit of metal under the hoof with some leather straps holding it in place. The mule wasn't too happy to wear it at first but she turned that millstone all season without going lame."

"The Ak Olot are said to tie planks under their horses' hooves to help them cross the deep snow," said Batugei and each of the nomads looked like they'd forgotten his existence. "It is a similar idea, and if an orc herd does something then it must be wise."

Batugei gave an easy smile to soften the boast into a jest. The others chuckled.

Shona turned her attention back to Deaglán. "Do you think you could work with Anlon and make one of these horse sandals?"

Anlon was the closest the caravan had to a smith, though his work was crude enough that Batugei preferred to wait until reaching a town when he needed something of his own repaired or honed.

Deaglán nodded, then shrugged, then gave a self-effacing smile. "Probably. It wasn't that complex once you saw it, though the grooves on the bottom were clever work since it helped the mule get traction." He blinked. "But all of Anlon's gear got hidden away before we entered the Khanate. I was the one to box his up, in fact, back when Bonnie and me were gathering up everyone's iron."

"We're close to where the iron's buried," said Shona, though she looked to Batugei for confirmation.

Aside from being warrior-veterinarians, orcs were also infallible wayfinders, or so the expectation ran. Fortunately, Batugei remembered well enough that his nod in agreement was more truth than exaggeration.

"Go grab Bonnie," she said to the nomad. Then, addressing him and Batugei both, she added, "Ride on ahead and dig up the iron. You may as well take Nally with you; even with a cracked hoof, she can take a halfling as rider.”

Deaglán was off like a hurled javelin while Batugei nodded respectfully to the small head woman of the caravan. He set out to find a saddle for the draft horse and shovels.

And if he happened to only find the shovels that were nomad-sized, that would save him tedious work later. As an orc among the other races, Batugei tried to be many things… but a menial laborer was not one of them.

* * *

Within the Khanate, it was a death sentence for a civilian to possess iron. The hobs had built an empire through the stolen dwarf-lore of iron working; the metal was power to them, and they guarded that power jealously.

However, the secret of iron had spread even further than the vast borders of the Khanate and was now known to many peoples, not just dwarves and hobs. Which was why it was routine for travelers to bury their iron implements before crossing into the Khan's realm with the intent of retrieving them after they departed.

Which was what Batugei, Deaglán, and Bonnie were in the process of doing.

"The long-handled shovel is right there in Séamus' wagon," grumbled Bonnie as she attacked the soil with a shovel too small for Batugei to effectively use.

Deaglán had to duck to one side to avoid a spray of dirt, such was Bonnie's furious digging.

Batugei turned west to face the edge of the clearing they were in so the nomads wouldn't see his poorly-concealed smile. "I must have missed it," he replied.

"You're lucky my good blades are still buried or I'd—" and the latter half of the threat devolved into the noises of toil and muttering.

Another spray of earth flew, some of it peppering Batugei's back and shoulders. The orc chuckled, drawing sounds of ire and frustration east of him.

Nally was tethered nearby, more to keep the mare from wandering off than anything else. With a cracked hoof, she would be carrying the lighter halflings back to the caravan while Sudal would be laden with the salvaged boxes of iron. Sudal's silhouette was visible just beyond the clearing; if anyone approached them from the road, the zebra would spot them and bray.

Iron-theft was rare but not unheard of along the Khanate's borders, and so Batugei had been cautious.

"I don't think we buried it this deep," said Deaglán, sounding unsure. "Hmm, maybe we need to dig over there instead?"

This was answered with a roar of frustration from his companion and it was now doubly fortunate that Batugei's amused smile was hidden from the others.

The working of iron was known to the Daguur, carried across the Great Savanna by merchants and mercenaries too many generations back to be remembered. The practice had come from afar but it was sustained through the dwarves, who weren't above profiting from iron-trade now that the secret was loose in the world. The dwarves had a great hunger for fur, meat, cheese, wool, cloth, and orcish crafts like Batugei's own sewing or leatherwork. Batugei's people used many tools of dwarven-make and forged many more with ores pulled from dwarven mines. It was a prosperous trade, each people enriched by the other.

However, more copper and tin flowed through the Great Savanna than iron, and so bronze was the metal of choice for most orcs. This was why Batugei's own weapon was bronze and why it had followed him into and out of the Khanate without incident.

Orcs favored weapons that could end a fight in a single blow. Many used axes and some used mauls, but Batugei was fond of his sword. The blade was thick, like a butcher's cleaver, and long so Batugei could take advantage of the reach it afforded him. The grip’s leatherwork was his own, dyed red, with beads woven in so that his hands could easily find their positions.

There was a resonant clunk to his east. "Oh! Found it! Hang on, Bonnie. I'll clear the dirt off the top and sides while you pry it up."

A second roar pierced the clearing, but this time it came from no nomad's throat.

"The hells was that?" said Bonnie. The sound of her digging had stopped and in the corner of his eye Batugei caught the glint of a bronze knife drawn. "An obo? A bear?"

There was foliage being moved through heavily north-west, a silhouette forming in the forested depths.

"No o-bakemono would be so loud," answered Batugei, drawing his sword as he put the nomads to his south-east. Batugei's heartbeat picked up and his breathing deepened, his body stirring itself at the promise of coming violence. "And a bear would be on all fours."

"What is it?!" hissed Deaglán, his shovel striking wood as often as dirt as he frantically tried to unearth the box.

As if to answer his question, the misshapen head atop the silhouette turned their way. Then the figure charged, roaring as it burst through the foliage, heedless of the tree limbs and thorny brambles raking its body.

The silhouette resolved and Batugei's lips curled back in an instinctive snarl. "Troll!" he bellowed, the beads of his sword's hilt pressing into his fingers as he tightened his grip.

As a whelp, Batugei would sometimes dribble mud through his fingers, letting it escape only a few droplets at a time. The mud would stack atop itself into a lumpy column, toppling over when it grew too tall. The troll’s legs, arms, and body were much like such columns if the mud had been the deep green of river moss. Even stooped as it was, the troll probably had two feet in height over Batugei. When the troll opened its mouth to roar, it was as though the lower half of the face and neck had split open, an improbably large maw revealed where none had been the heartbeat before.

The troll charged Batugei, long arms stretched out, each limb ending with four clawed fingers. The orc waited until the last moment, muscles tense, before crouching low, stepping under and beside the grasping arms like an elephant handler ducking his beast's tusks. Batugei rose already swinging but the troll's speed meant that scarcely two inches of his blade was wetted with blueish-green blood.

Both the nomads dove out of the way, the troll too heavy to do more than crash past them, though it did carve a three-inch furrow in the soil as it swiped where Bonnie had been standing less than a heartbeat ago.

Nally's reins were tied around the trunk of a narrow ligustrum tree and the horse was thrashing madly in fright, attempting to free herself. Sudal, meanwhile, approached the edge of the clearing, ears flattened, tail lashing in agitation.

"Shit! Troll! Deag, I need my blades outta that damn box!" barked Bonnie. In one hand she held a long bronze knife with worn pentagonal markings in the hilt, and in the other she gripped her wooden shovel.

"Occupy it and I will put it down," said Batugei, striding south-east so he could attack the beast from its flank.

Deaglán, meanwhile, had redoubled his digging, though his head kept snapping up from his work to look fearfully outward.

The troll had stopped its charge by simply slamming into a towering oak. Batugei would have broken bones hitting with that much force, but if the troll was bothered, it didn't show it. The head was a disfigured mass of lumps vying for space between stooped shoulders. There were no visible ears and the eyes were buried deep within folds of flesh, the pupils entirely black and seemingly lidless. It started to advance toward Batugei once more when a small rock struck it square in the middle of its face, deftly hurled by Bonnie.

"Sure, no problem," she drawled, blade held in readiness while she snatched up the shovel she'd dropped to throw the stone. "I'll keep it occupied for... two bites? Maybe three." Shaking her head, she muttered to herself, "Damn, I wish I was wearing my ponytail."

The troll crossed the distance to Bonnie in only six long strides, a tremor felt through the ground when it lashed out with an arm as long as it was tall. Bonnie had stepped deftly aside and then carved a six-inch gash into the troll's forearm before having to dance back and to the side to avoid the second claw. Bluish-green liquid welled up from the wound, but the blood never reached the ground. It was as if it were evaporating or being drank back in by the lumpy skin.

The north side of the troll’s torso was emaciated —a multitude of bumps like pebbles visible where ribs should be— while the south side was flabby with fat rolls. It was from the south that Batugei attacked, the orc winding back as he closed, bringing his sword around in a downward swing that put all of his force behind it. He'd feared the blade would strike bone and lodge in the meat, but the troll's flesh parted like clay and its bones broke like wood under an axe.

The creature's back and southern side was a ruin, its teal blood and viscera spilling across the soil.

Batugei roared in triumph... and was caught completely by surprise when he was backhanded by a trunk-like arm, the force of the blow sending him flying.

The wind had been knocked free of him in the initial hit, so landing roughly on the ground made sucking in a lungful of air all the harder. For two heartbeats it was all Batugei could do to lay there, staring at the clouds overhead and trying to herd his scattered wits. Then Sudal was beside him and Batugei reached up, gripping his mount's west stirrup and hauling himself up to his feet.

The troll's southern side was still a massive wound —there was now a wooden shovel lodged in the injury, the handle broken and missing halfway up— the flesh around it quivering like ripples through a pond. The troll was noticeably favoring its northern side, its hunch now slanted, but it seemed largely indifferent to an injury that would have left any other foe bleeding out as it gasped its last. Blood welled up from the wound, but little made it to the ground, the troll's very flesh drinking it back in.

Bonnie held only her bronze knife, slashing frantically with it as the troll sought to grab her, its unnatural maw open and drooling.

"[Flank,]" commanded Batugei. His head throbbed, but north was still north, so he didn't stumble as he ran forward, stooping to snatch up his dropped sword. Sudal galloped to the troll's east as Batugei charged northwest. 

Bonnie was screaming in defiance as much as in fear. The troll lurched forward, its southern hand open wide enough to engulf her head. She plunged her knife into and through the troll's palm. On any other opponent, this would have stopped the attack in its tracks, but for the troll, it only turned a grab into a raking slash, two lines of red carved into Bonnie's southern arm.

Working with practiced synchronicity, Sudal reared back and kicked the troll from behind a heartbeat before Batugei brought his sword down in a heavy slice against his off-balance opponent. With a wet squelch, his sword bit into and then through the troll's arm, severing it at where the elbow should have been.

A spray of teal blood erupted outward before it abruptly stemmed, the surrounding flesh quivering as it slithered over the stump, the wound scabbing over before Batugei's very eyes. Bonnie was caught in the arterial splash, her eastern side coated as she frantically tried to backpedal out of the troll's reach.

The troll collapsed forward, trying to catch itself with an arm it no longer possessed. However, its northern arm snagged Bonnie by the boot, causing her to topple backwards.

The severed arm writhed in the soil like a fish pulled onto land. Batugei's sword had cleaved through the arm, but when the wound tried to close, the flesh had pulled around the blade in the process. Now Batugei was tugging, trying to free his weapon from the wriggling appendage.

With a cry, Deaglán ran over, Anlon's smithing hammer clenched tightly in both hands as he repeatedly bludgeoned the claw grasping Bonnie's boot. "Leave us alone!" he shouted as he hammered rubbery flesh. It didn't look like he was doing much damage, but the assault was enough for Bonnie to wriggle free, scrabbling westward and away.

Using its good arm, the troll heaved itself forward, its distended jaw snapping at Deaglán and, judging from the nomad's scream of pain, finding flesh.

Sudal brought his hooves down on the grounded opponent at the same time Deaglán ran westward after Bonnie, the hammer forgotten and a bloody arm clutched to his chest.

Just as Batugei managed to wrench his sword free, the troll waved its stump of an arm at him. He jumped south to avoid the blow, bringing his sword around to rake across the thing's shoulder. He would have resumed his assault but when the troll's stump grazed the severed arm, the appendage made a wet sound, reattaching itself.

The arm wasn't positioned right —it was turned a quarter circle skyward— and the wounds didn't overlap properly, like someone had severed a tree branch and then joined the halves clumsily together with resin. However, the arm moved to the troll's will and already Batugei could see the quivering flesh pulling the halves into closer alignment. The gaping wound on its side was also noticeably smaller.

Batugei made a shrill whistle, Sudal backing off only moments before the troll lurched to its feet, its half-attached arm clawing for the zebra. Another whistle and Sudal retreated further; he would avoid the monster from here on out.

Trolls were rare in the Great Savanna, but the stories about them were gruesome enough to spread far and wide. It was known to the Daguur that a troll could be dismembered and the pieces buried, but such feats were accomplished by warbands, not an orc and two wounded nomads.

Batugei was fighting defensively now, carving into the troll with each swing but giving ground steadily.

It was known that trolls were wary of fire, but they had no fire lit and it would be folly to attempt to start one now.

The troll stepped forward, beady eyes trained on Batugei, when it staggered, its western foot lodged in the now-empty hole the nomads had dug. Batugei was about to reverse his retreat when he was surprised to hear a cry of attack that was not his own.

Bonnie, red blood mingling with teal, sprinted forward with a shortsword of iron in her good hand and a smaller iron knife in the other. The troll lashed out with its healthier, western arm, which Bonnie vaulted, landing nimbly atop the trunk-like appendage and now sprinting _up_ the troll.

"Die, you miscarriage of Nammu!" she screamed. The troll flailed, but Bonnie turned her stumble into a downward plunge with the sword, burying it in the troll's shoulder. She switched the knife to her good hand and then stabbed it repeatedly into the back of the troll's neck. "Just fucking die!"

Despite Bonnie's ferocious assault, the troll fought on, two clawed hands reaching back for the nomad, one twisted at an unnatural angle and with a blade of bronze still buried in the palm.

It was known that trolls were ruled by a great hunger; they would follow prey from one horizon to another, heedless of danger or fatigue.

"Bonnie! Dismount!" shouted Batugei as he turned south-east and ran with purpose away from the fight.

Bonnie ducked a claw, losing her grip on the iron knife in the process. When the damaged arm tried clumsily to grab her, she instead reached out and wrenched the bronze blade from the troll's palm, using that to get in another stab at the troll's stooped shoulders. "This thing will— Whoa!" She struggled to stay upright. "It'll follow us if we run!"

"Which is why it will be following something else instead!"

Batugei sprinted towards Nally, the horse maddened with fear, her reins now wrapped around the narrow trunk of the ligustrum tree. He brought his sword downward, hacking into one of Nally's legs. On the upswing, he severed the reins.

The wounded horse fled noisily into the underbrush, a vivid crimson trail marking her passage.

Bonnie half-dove, half-fell from the troll's shoulders, landing in a roll and then popping up running, having lost almost no speed in the process. It was one more tally among many to add to Batugei's esteem for the child-sized warrior.

With a whistle and pointed finger, Batugei sent Sudal over toward Bonnie, the nomad already grabbing Deaglán and hauling him away from the troll with her bronze blade held between her teeth. He then jogged toward the troll, shouting insults in Khel.

The troll had been indecisive about which prey to pursue but Batugei drew its attention. The creature pulled its lumpy pillar of a leg free from the hole with a spray of dirt, long strides taking it in his direction.

Batugei turned and jogged south-east away. It seemed the spirits approved of his plan because it was as the troll was closing in that Nally staggered, letting out a pained whinny. No predator could ignore a noise like that, and the troll was no different. It didn't even spare a second glance in Batugei's direction as it ran headlong after the wounded horse.

With more haste than care, Batugei placed first Bonnie and then Deaglán onto Sudal's saddle, the blonde helping her injured companion to remain upright. Batugei eyed the box of iron tools, many of which had been scattered across the clearing. He then thought better of it, swinging himself up into the saddle and urging his zebra to carry them quickly back to the road.

The caravan could return for the tools later if needed, after the troll had wandered elsewhere.

Deaglán swayed in the saddle, Bonnie using her good arm to keep him upright. "It's like when we first met, isn't it, Deag?" she joked with false cheer.

"Yeah, but backwards," mumbled the brown-haired nomad.

"I will stop so we can dress wounds once we are further down the road," assured Batugei.

"That's good," answered Bonnie, craning her head around and speaking in a whisper, as if to try and keep her Deaglán from hearing. "Because Deag's near to passing out and I'm—" She clenched her teeth in a pained hiss. "—And my arm feels like it's on fucking fire right now," she finished through clenched teeth.

It was known that a troll's flesh was foul and capable of causing sickness in others.

Batugei urged Sudal just a little faster.

* * *

By the time they met the caravan on the road, the situation between the nomads had reversed: Deaglán, his arm wrapped in cloth and bound to his chest in a sling, was alert to the point of being frantic, while Bonnie was in too much pain to say or do much of anything.

A glance was all it took for the others to recognize that something had gone wrong. Shona called the wagons to a halt, not even bothering to pull them off the road first while Batugei dismounted and then helped the nomads down from Sudal's saddle.

"Eithne!" shrieked Deaglán, sprinting north as soon as Bonnie was situated. "There was a troll! Batugei says they're poisonous and Bonnie's sick! She needs a poultice or one of your medicinal brews or— or— She needs help!"

There was a tumult of voices in response but Batugei ignored them all until Shona strode over. "Tell me what happened," she said in a firm tone.

Batugei held up a waterskin for Bonnie to sip from while he supported the nomad. Looking to Shona, he said, "A troll found us as we were digging up the iron. We tried to drive it away, but Deaglán and Bonnie were injured, so I lamed Connor's mare and sent it away for the troll to chase. We fled on Sudal. Deaglán's injury looked the worst but it is Bonnie who is ailing." He paused to pat Bonnie's back as she sputtered, her last sip having gone down wrong. "She fought bravely," he added.

"You're—" The coughing continued for another heartbeat and then Bonnie said, "You're damn right." Her feral grin collapsed as she hissed, clutching her injured arm.

"Where's Nally?" he heard Connor cry in the background.

Shona shook her head, the hard demeanor falling away for a moment as the head woman favored Bonnie with a motherly smile. "Fool girl," she said, her tone wry but her expression affectionate. "You know, there's a word we had for a brave fool in—"

Bonnie's eyes were shut in pain. With a snarl, she ground out, "Fuck off, you bitch," interrupting Shona's sentence.

The moment, whatever it had been, ended with that.

Shona pulled a grass-eating face before turning to Batugei. "Were you hurt? How's your zebra?"

To the northwest, Deaglán was running the length of the caravan, stuffing objects into a sack he carried in his uninjured hand. Another nomad, Eithne, was heading their way.

Batugei flashed Shona an easy smile. "Only knocked about. And Sudal is fine," he said, his appreciation for her concern over his mount audible.

Eithne joined them, crouching low by Bonnie's side while Shona backed up to give them space. "Hey Bonnie. Deaglán said you fought a troll."

"The troll started it," quipped the blonde nomad, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Eithne gently led Bonnie's arm away from her chest so she could examine it. There were two long scratches, the skin red and angry. More worrisome, though, was how the wounds themselves were shot through with veins of bluish-green. Batugei and Deaglán had washed as much of the troll’s blood from Bonnie as they’d been able while dressing wounds, but the lines in Bonnie’s gashes had stubbornly remained.

"This is nasty," said Eithne, expression tight.

"You should have seen the other guy," snarked Bonnie, clearly trying not to flinch as her friend gently prodded the area around the wounds.

"Bonnie," answered Eithne in a flat tone. "He's a troll. He's already healed whatever you did to him."

"Yeah, but he was ugly. Really— Ouch! Really ugly."

Eithne rolled her eyes. "And you'll make a beautiful corpse," she said wryly, one sleeve of her tunic riding up enough to reveal a portion of her spiral tattoo.

There was a disturbance from the caravan to the north. Connor spoke heatedly with several other nomads. Seeing this, Shona said to Eithne, "Get me the details when you can," and then headed off to calm her irate successor.

Meanwhile, Deaglán came bounding over, a sack bouncing heavily in his grip. "I grabbed everything you said to get. And everything I thought might be helpful." He dropped it heavily beside Eithne. "What do you need? How do we get Bonnie better?" His naked concern was a sharp contrast to the women's earlier bravado.

"Mortar and pestle," she said, Deaglán scrambling to retrieve them. "Here, mince this pipe-weed while I warm some wine."

"Sorry, Enny, but you're not my type," joked Bonnie weakly.

Eithne ignored the jab, drawing a short, sharp knife from the bag and setting it alongside the other items that were resting on a square of cloth beside her. "I'm going to lance the wound so whatever that blue stuff is—"

"Troll's blood," explained Batugei.

"—so the troll's blood can be drained. Warm wine to clean the wound, then a pipe-weed poultice to draw out the poison." She took a wineskin from Deaglán, saying to him, "And then we're looking at that arm of yours."

Deaglán shrugged, struggling to mince the herbs one-handed. "It's a flesh wound. There're priests in Dahir who can heal that."

Batugei stepped over to help him in the task.

"My dad is a priest, Deaglán," was Eithne's retort. "Their magic just speeds up natural healing, and you don't heal if you arrive dead because your wound festered. Besides, Dad would bitch and bitch about unnecessary scarring because some fool didn't do proper triage when they got hurt."

"Deag, don't listen to her," said Bonnie. "You would look bad-ass with some scars. Probably half the steader-loving you get now is because of that nose of yours."

"Shut up while I stab you," replied Eithne, taking up her knife to lance the wound.

"I just hope this works," murmured Deaglán, a sentiment Batugei echoed with a nod of his own.

* * *

The sun had migrated partway across the sky and yet Bonnie did not look much improved.

The blonde nomad bit down on a strip of leather as the poultice was peeled back. If anything, the lines of blue looked larger than before.

"Geimhreadh's frosty arse, that hurt!" shouted the tiny warrior after spitting out the bite strip.

"Eithne!" came Deaglán's squeal of concern.

"I—" Eithne shook her head. "It didn't work," she said, her voice faint. Then, tone hardening, she continued, "I can lance it again but she needs better healing. Fast."

Batugei thought of the obvious and then frowned. Even riding Sudal hard, they wouldn't reach Dahir quickly enough. A glance east to Shona showed she had thought the same, to go by the head woman's tight expression.

"If Batugei—" started Deaglán but Shona cut him off.

"It's too far. It'd take him three days to get to Dahir."

"Four," corrected Batugei. "And that's if I ride Sudal to exhaustion."

"So he takes her back to Hirata," answered Deaglán in a heartbeat.

Eithne shook her head. "There's no priests in Hirata. Unless—" She turned to Batugei. "Were there any with the orcs buying feed?"

"No. Shamans rarely leave the village they inhabit." He’d nearly used the word ‘herd’ in place of ‘village’, but he'd traveled with the halflings long enough to avoid terms the nomads found confusing.

Deaglán paced, first west and then east, his expression fraught. Then he jolted. "Wait, what about those Tobh herbs!"

Batugei didn't know what to make of that. "The what?"

Deaglán rounded on him. "Tobh's this stead that's big on worshiping Earrach," he said, referring to an elven god of Spring. "The priests bless just about everything growing there since it sells better that way: grain, pipe-weed, poppies, you name it. The really expensive good, though, is the herbs they grow 'round the temple. They're supposed to heal all sorts of things."

"We sold those months ago," answered Shona.

"Yeah, but a few leaves might have fallen out or something," insisted Deaglán. "They were kept in the smuggler's space in Séamus' wagon since they were so valuable, so they could still be in there!"

"Mice probably ate 'em," muttered Bonnie, who was looking decidedly paler.

Several in the group glanced south at the nomad as if they'd forgotten she was there.

Before the others could ask questions, Batugei explained, "Bonnie said earlier that she heard mice moving in the hidden space."

"And that's why we sprinkled that rat poison around," countered Deaglán, determined to ride hope until it collapsed beneath him.

Rather than watch him plead further, Batugei strolled over. "Let's go. I will open the compartment for you so you don't strain your arm."

"Thanks." The nomad twisted around southward and called to Bonnie, "We'll be right back! It's gonna be okay!"

"Sure, Deag." Bonnie’s answer sounded less than convincing.

Despite having the longer legs, Batugei had to hustle to keep pace with Deaglán. Climbing into the wagon, Batugei muscled aside the stacked stone. "Where is the—" He asked when the nomad pointed out the hard-to-see ring that would lift the lid of the smuggler's compartment.

There must have been vermin in there because Batugei could hear faint movement within.

The ring was awkward, being small for his larger fingers. It didn't help that Deaglán was crowding beside him anxiously, but Batugei said nothing in rebuke. He finally managed to get a grip on the ring and pull enough to pry open a gap. Then he grabbed hold of that and hauled, seeing...

A sho-bakemono with mottled fur stared up at them, a bundle of writing supplies clutched in her arms.

"The good news," she said, her words slurred since it appeared many of her teeth were broken or missing, "is that you don't have a mouse problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trolls: difficult to put down whatever the setting.
> 
> While the level of technology in this setting doesn't correspond tightly to real world history, I try to default to the Iron Age here in Amalgam being similar to our own. Which means that it's too early for the horseshoe, but not too early for the [hipposandal.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hipposandal)
> 
> You can expect an entirely new POV for next week's chapters. But don't worry: it'll cycle back around to Bonnie and Batugei in future chapters.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	9. Squirreled Away (Vex's Past)

> _It is common belief that the bakemonos were made from the scraps after all the other races had been created. I hold this to be correct, in spirit if not in fact. And contrary to the common intent of the tale, I assert it here with no slight intended: it means that from the very beginning, right at the genesis of the race, they were used to working with whatever they could get their hands on._
> 
> _Resourcefulness is a strength that one ignores at one's own peril. It is the essence of the surprise balancing of the scales, and what pitiable race hangs lower in the balance than the bakemono?_

\- Excerpt from _An Examination of the Fleeting Races_ , by Vorkin’Ana

* * *

“You fuck-faced, buck-toothed, nut-stinking, tree rat piece of shit! You drop that _now_ or I will use your bloody pelt to wipe my ass!”

The squirrel didn’t seem particularly intimidated by Vex’s tirade and scampered higher up the tree with half a sheet of Vex’s parchment.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, damnation, and fuck!”

Vex paced as she swore, the light rain wicking off her dense fur. Face and palms aside, no skin was visible, but the fur was the same color as the green and mottled brown sho-bakemono beneath.

She spotted a rock. Grabbing it, she looked up at the rodent that was trying to line its nest with her godsdamned notes and chucked the stone at it.

It struck the trunk probably three feet off the mark. The squirrel stared down from its branch and barked at her.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, you little nut-humper.” Her hands had gone to the tool belt she wore and were rapidly fashioning a sling out of the spare bits of materials she kept therein. With a final bit of knotwork, she grabbed another rock and fitted it to the sling’s cradle, turning back to her treeborne opponent. “Laugh and laugh at silly old Vex all you want. Just...” She transferred the sling to her right hand and began spinning it. “Don’t... _Move.”_

The stone loosed and whistled through the air. The squirrel, rather than listen to Vex, repositioned so the tree’s trunk was between it and the sho-bakemono below. The stone missed anyway, knocking a few leaves loose before it landed off somewhere in the distance.

“Shit!” She ran a hand through the fur on her head. Then, looking at her damp palm, she seemed to notice the rain for the first time and added, “Double-flaming-dragon shit! It’s getting wet too!”

The tree trunk was wider around than Vex was tall and had no lower branches she could climb. Not that climbing after a squirrel was a particularly brilliant plan. Maybe a halfling could pull it off, _the athletic bastards_ , but Vex’s strengths started with her head and ended at her mouth. Everything lower on her simian-like body was pretty uninspiring.

“Fuck it,” she muttered and began gathering as many stones as she could, tucking them into the pockets hanging off her belt. “I’ll hit the little shit eventually.”

* * *

It was thirty stones later. Thirty misses and Vex had passed the point of anger or hope, and was now running on spite. Unfortunately for the squirrel, she had a lot of spite.

And rocks.

It was pointless, really. The ink was crappy, little more than dark mud, and would have long since run past the point of legibility.

Vex fitted another stone to the sling and spun it up. _But I’ll be damned if I—_

Her arm went slack, the stone falling harmlessly to the ground as she watched a nine-foot-tall, brown-and-orange giant silently stride over and pluck the distracted, tired squirrel from the branch.

“Oh, hey, Lek,” Vex said in an exhausted tone. “Thanks for the—”

The squirrel, and the parchment, went straight in the o-bakemono’s mouth. _Crunch._

“Gah!” Vex jumped like she’d been stung. The three-foot-tall sho-bakemono ran over and began kicking ineffectually at a furry ankle that was as wide around as Vex’s torso. “No! Spit that out, you lummox!”

There was a grunt of confusion somewhere in the canopy of o-bakemono overhead and then a glob of fur, blood, and saliva dropped to the forest floor.

Vex hurried over and extracted the much-battered piece of parchment, more pulp than not at this point. Still, parchment was hard to find and spit (and bits of squirrel) could be cleaned off.

There was another grunt and a hand, one big enough that Vex could have ridden in it, lowered to eye level. Lek didn’t even have to stoop to do it, being hunched, with arms nearly as long as she was tall. Vex dropped the crushed and mangled squirrel into the palm.

“Chew well,” she said. “The little bastard deserves it.”

 _Plus, you don’t have the teeth for meat,_ she thought, but didn’t bother to say.

She was probably a hundred feet away when she heard a deep voice say behind her. “Daibos. I saw.”

Vex’s shoulders slumped. “Fuuuck,” she said, the swear more an exhalation than an epithet.

* * *

Vex had a blade pointed at her eye. She could see the weapon was well cared for —sharp, oiled, all signs of rust ground away— but it was notched and scratched enough that if you cut a straight line with it, you’d probably get puzzle pieces instead.

All her tools as well as the notes she’d _thought_ were carefully hidden were spread out on the ground a few feet away. Apparently not hidden from squirrels or dai-bakemonos. Fuck.

Anything you could stab or cut with had been taken.

“What does this say?” asked the leader daibo, gesturing below. She was twice Vex’s height, all muscle and coiled strength beneath a layer of piecemeal armor. Hers was a body shaped for violence as surely as any blade.

“Nothing interesting.”

The jagged blade moved closer, filling much of Vex’s vision.

“They’re just notes!” she pleaded. “I write things down, things I remember, things I think about! You want to kill stuff and this is nothing about that, really!”

A long moment passed as the leader considered what to make of that.

Another daibo, this one lesser in stature, equipment, and rank to the one pointing a knife at Vex, appeared soundlessly about twenty feet distant. All of bakemono-kind could move quietly, but daibos did it with grace.

The lackey then trod heedlessly over the notes underfoot. Vex flinched with each step.

“Wagon. Five people plus horses,” said the lackey, pointing off in the distance.

“Prey,” said the daibo leader. “Any kin present?” and she gestured dismissively toward Vex, the knife tip scratching lightly against a green-and-brown eyelid.

The lackey shook her head. “Halflings and humans.”

The leader grinned wide. In her smile, without pattern or order, incisors were vying with canines alongside serrated teeth that’d be at home in the maw of a shark. “Meat.”

The daibo’s pupils had narrowed to pinpricks. Her nostrils flared as they tried to find the smell of something non-bakemono to kill. The knife went away, but a smile that was just as jagged and dangerous replaced it. “Goodbye, little one with thoughts,” she said dismissively, the shakedown forgotten.

With a gesture from their leader, all six of the daibos turned and left in the direction of their new victims.

Vex waited until the others had vanished soundlessly into the foliage, and then waited twenty breaths more. Moving slowly, as though old and weathered by time, the sho-bakemono picked up her notes and scattered ingredients. Her tool belt was much lighter than before.

She got her remaining belongings out of the damp and then slumped against a tree. Sullenly, she uprooted a weed that happened to be in reach. A caterpillar crawling across it became her consolatory meal. Then, in a desultory fashion, the leaves, stem, and roots of the plant followed after.

Vex scowled at the world over her snack, not surprised by this latest setback, but still bitter.

Early the next morning she went to the ransacked wagon hoping for useful scraps. She found blood-stained dirt and smoking embers, the wagon’s remnants after the daibos had finished their slaughter.

Vex gathered up the scraps of canvas and bits of leather that had escaped the flame. Then, using a stick, she probed the ashes and embers, fishing out the nails. Her tool belt was a little heavier by the end.

* * *

“—that’s the plan.” Vex turned to face her audience, hands clasped behind her back. “Any questions?”

Four o-bakemonos looked back at her, their expressions various shades of placid or puzzled. The silence was broken only with the sound of chewing, as the giants never really stopped eating.

Lek was the first to respond. Typical. She was the brainiest of the lot, and they usually let her do the talking when the tiny sho-bakemono was asking them questions. “What about daibo?”

“Gone for two months now.” Vex rubbed her eyelid. “Trust me, I’ve been looking.”

Jup was next, the obo idly stripping the leaves off a nearby tree limb as she spoke. “Why smash wagons?” Her pronounced underbite and heavy brow made her look like she was in a perpetual scowl.

_Because I’m out of fucking supplies and I can feel my brain atrophy as we speak._

“Because,” said Vex. “The wagons will be hauling feed out to the hob town of Hirata so they can sell it to the orc tribes. The orcs need it to feed their livestock over the winter.”

Kwi, a runt of an obo at a mere seven feet tall, looked anxious. She refused to stray from Jup or Lek, which meant all the best vegetation was gobbled up by her larger peers. Kwi had taken to gnawing roots and bark as a result, her incisors becoming so large that she could scarcely fit them behind her lips.

“What’f feed?” Her buck teeth also meant she lisped.

Leaf nodded. The obo was huge, probably eleven feet tall and unusually uniform in coloration, an immense, brown defoliator. She’d wandered into their group from deeper in the forest and didn’t know how to talk. However old she was, she’d obviously spent the early parts of her life completely isolated from bakemono-kind.

Plants weren’t great conversationalists. When asked her name, the massive obo would hold out a leaf. Then she’d eat it.

Vex, a tiny general before her troops, replied, “Feed is hay.”

That got their attention.

“Oats.”

Eyes widened.

Then, slowly, as if savoring the moment, Vex said, “Corn.”

Jup, Lek, and Kwi cheered at that, a basso sound more felt than heard. Leaf looked at the others’ reaction and then joined in, ripping a tree branch probably six inches thick off the trunk and beating it against the ground like a drum.

* * *

The hob samurai sidestepped the greatclub, evading a blow that shook the ground with its force, then gutted Lek. Lek stumbled, her large hand going to her ruined midsection, which brought her throat in reach to be sliced open.

The hob stepped just out of range of the giant’s collapse, wiped the blood free of the blade with a rag, and then sheathed the sword, all in stoic silence.

Two halflings had Vex held tightly, which was overkill. One of them was more than strong enough to slap seven shades of snot out of her. Vex would rather fight a human than a halfling if given the choice.

Not that she'd been given one.

Ignoring the great quantities of obo blood coating his armor, scabbard, and, well, everywhere, the samurai marched over to Vex. The samurai’s hand gesticulated broadly as he made a couple of quiet grunts, and then he waited in expectant silence.

Vex stared up at the warrior that had taken down (or in Kwi’s case, chased off) four o-bakemonos almost single-handedly. “Can you, uh, repeat… whatever that was?”

A human with a bushy beard and smile lines in his face said, “He wants to know where the dai-bakemonos are?”

Vex slumped as much as the deceptively strong hands holding her would allow. “Fuuuck.”

* * *

“What’s your name?” the human with the beard asked in Caint.

Vex sat in a wagon that reeked of hay. Her wrists bound in stocks of metal-reinforced wood, she snorted dramatically and then spat a phlegmy glob in the man’s direction. The chain connecting the stocks to the wagon rattled with the movement.

For some reason, she wasn’t feeling particularly talkative.

The human wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “Come on. It’s a long way to the magistrate’s. Weeks of travel. You may as well enjoy what company is available before you’re interrogated and most likely executed.”

Someone speaking of torture and executions with boisterous cheer actually made Vex feel a little nostalgic.

“Please, talk to Baros or he’ll talk to us instead,” said a grinning halfling.

Another chimed in, adding, “He never shuts up. He even talks in his sleep.”

Vex shook her head. “Glad I don’t have to—”

The first one jumped back in, gesturing to the hay. “And he sleeps in this wagon. Have fun with that.”

“Is it too late for the samurai to just disembowel me?” Vex asked, earning a couple of chuckles from the others.

None of them had gotten hurt because of that thrice-damned samurai being there. If one of them had gotten crushed, they probably wouldn't be feeling so chummy toward their captive sho-bakemono.

“Yes, yes, very funny,” said Baros with easy humor. “But I’m afraid samurai Atsushi has left to track down the daibos, so you’ll have to keep your bowels on the inside for the time being. Now, your name?”

“Given name’s Fuh,” answered Vex.

“Fuh. Oh, are you from the Khanate? And what’s your surname?” asked Baros with genuine curiosity while rummaging through a courier bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“‘Koff’ with two effs.”

“Fuh Ko— Oh.”

The halflings tittered.

He had pulled a journal out of his bag and laid it across his lap. He’d been reaching for his ink and quill but paused.

Vex eyed the writing supplies with naked hunger.

Baros shook his head and closed the book. “Well, maybe tomorrow you’ll—” and he began transferring the journal back to his bag.

 _“Vex,”_ barked Vex, startling the others with the sudden intensity. “Name’s Vex. We can talk.” She eyed the book once more, then her eyes went to the fetters at her wrists. “I’ll talk all you want, Baros, provided you keep giving me sticks.”

The human quirked his head to the side. “Sticks?”

“Sticks.” Vex licked her lips. “I’m hungry.”

The look of bearded incredulity continued. “You want to eat…sticks?” Baros gestured at the yellowing feed lining the bed of the wagon. “We have hay.” He then waved at the orc driving the wagon up front. “Jerky, too.”

“Sticks, Baros.” Vex fixed her eyes on his. “Like you said, it’s a long way to the magistrate’s. You’re going to need a lot of sticks.”

Baros gave her an intrigued look. “That assumes you have stories worth that many sticks, Vex.”

“Beardy, I’ll gnaw down the whole godsdamned forest.”

* * *

Baros was muttering in his sleep.

Vex ground a stick between her teeth and felt both stick and tooth crack. It was a brief, sharp pain, but so familiar she didn’t consciously register it anymore. She set the stick aside, then reached in and pulled the shattered tooth out, her long fingers reaching easily despite the stocks on her wrists.

Sharp, meant for cutting and tearing. She was a little surprised it was in there; she hadn’t eaten much meat since living in the forest. Better to break it now so a proper bark-grinding molar could take its place. Hurry things along.

She tossed the tooth into the back of her mouth and swallowed, a brief feeling of contentment welling up. More gravel for the gizzard, and there was just something _satisfying_ about teeth.

Bakemonos were peculiar like that.

Then the events of the day caught up with her in a rush, the bubble of contentment bursting dramatically.

With one last look around to confirm all were sleeping or elsewhere, Vex allowed the grief to pour out.

She fell asleep gnawing on the stick, mumbling Lek, Jup, Kwi, and Leaf’s names into her hay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bakemonos are a pretty out-there race, physiologically-speaking. You can look forward to more details about how they work in the next backstory chapter.


	10. Mixed Reactions

> _Poison and medicine are two sides of the same coin, and it is the chemist that holds the purse._

\- Winter elven saying

* * *

"The good news is that you don't have a mouse problem."

Vex smiled up at the beaded orc and kink-nosed halfling, attempting to broadcast an aura of inoffensiveness.

Apparently it was as a shit attempt, because the orc grabbed her by the throat and hauled her out of the smuggler's nook, giving her a shake for good measure that sent some of the parchment she'd been clutching tumbling to the ground.

She made a futile attempt to snatch the falling parchment with her feet but otherwise kept her gaze on the orc. She figured she had about ten heartbeats before she was thrashed, punted into the forest, or both.

"I can save Ponnie!" she gargled. The orc’s grasp made expressing sincerity difficult, but she did her best.

"You mean Bonnie?" asked Kink-Nose, hope vying with confusion for room on his face.

"Yes. Her." Vex tried to point with her eyebrows in the direction of the bandaged halfling, a feat assisted by shobos having very expressive faces. "Bonnie." A beat. "Sounds are really muffled inside that compartment."

The orc scowled at her. "You are a sneak and are breeding false hope to buy time to escape."

Kink-Nose turned and scampered out of Vex's field of vision, rummaging through the smuggler's compartment by the sounds of things.

An auburn halfling with scowl lines came jogging over, a half-dozen other caravaneers only a little ways behind. "What in the hells is that shobo doing in one of my wagons?"

A dark-haired halfling with spiralist tattoos picked up the dropped parchment and glanced over it. "Writing something in orc-script apparently."

"What?" exclaimed the orc. His grip didn’t loosen in the slightest but he turned his head in the halfling's direction as far as he could while still keeping one eye on Vex.

From out of Vex's view, there was a noise of disappointment and then Kink-Nose jogged back into view. "I couldn't find any herbs," he declared morosely. "Just trail biscuit crumbs and some jerky."

This returned the orc's full attention to Vex, his glower deepening. Maybe it'd been his jerky Vex had swiped when no one was looking.

"Anlon, Connor, tie the shobo up and kick the shit out of her if she tries anything funny," barked Angry Auburn, apparently the leader of this particular group.

"Wait. Hold on." // "She said something about helping Bonnie!" said Vex and Kink-Nose over one another.

Angry Auburn had opened her mouth to say something more —probably exhorting the others to hurry up and bind Vex— but paused, her gaze shifting from Kink-Nose to Spiral-Tats to Vex. Apparently this Bonnie was someone Angry Auburn cared about.

Vex took as deep a breath as she was able, dangling by her neck like that, and said hastily, "A troll attacked and apparently someone, I'm guessing Muscles here, managed to cut it open enough that Bonnie got some troll bits in a wound. You tried treating it like a poison, but that didn't do dick, and now Bonnie there is a few hours away from losing that arm and maybe a day away from losing her everything-the-fuck-else."

She struggled weakly, furry legs kicked the air. It was a sho-bakemono’s lot in life to always be the smallest person present: even the halflings had a few inches of height on her. She wore no clothes —she didn't even have her tool belt these days, such was the rain of shit she'd been subjected to these last few weeks— instead covered by thick, brown fur mottled with splotches of tan and green.

If she weren't so light-weight she'd probably be choking for real, hanging from her neck. As it was she took another shallow breath and then said, "That about right?"

For several heartbeats there was only silence.

"Batugei may have hacked its arm off, but I did most of the ass-kicking," insisted Bonnie, her boast somewhat undercut by the pain audible in her voice.

The orc —Batugei, apparently— looked at Angry Auburn.

"Go ahead," she said. A heartbeat later she added, _"After_ she's tied up." Then she turned to Vex. "Drop the parchments. And don't test my patience."

"I— There's inkwells in here," pleaded Vex, clutching her writing materials to her chest. "If I drop this, one of them's going to shatter and spill all over the writing."

Angry Auburn was about to say something else when Kink-Nose hurried over, carefully taking the bundle of parchment, quills, and several wells of ink.

Something dropped to the ground —"Oops. Sorry!" from Kink-Nose— and Vex wasn't able to suppress the flinch. At least it hadn't sounded like glass breaking.

She was then lowered to the ground, where she took a deep breath and allowed herself to be tied up by two halflings. Of the two, one had surprising arm definition —A smith, maybe?— and another had an expression reminiscent of a freshly-slapped ass.

Batugei stepped back a pace and glanced at the parchment Spiral-Tats was holding. "That isn't Khel," he graveled. "It's Tahduth." His eyes narrowed and he bent lower to the page. "But not the dialect used by the summer elves."

"It's the winter variant," explained Vex before turning to one side and snapping, "Fuck! Easy with the knot-work, dipshit. You nearly squeezed off my finger."

Slapped-Ass took that as justification for elbowing her in the small of the back, but he did make sure all her fingers were free when tying her wrists.

Speaking to the others again, she added, "Khel borrows a lot of its orthography from Tahduth, specifically the dialect used here on the surface. That’s why the alphabets look similar."

Everyone stared at the shobo as if she'd just given them a brief lecture on linguistics. Which she had.

"Because of the mercenary trade between summer elves and orcs?" prompted Vex. "Look, I'd draw you fuckers a diagram but I'm a little tied up at the moment."

One of the halflings in the crowd gave a single, surprised laugh at the quip and then clapped his hands over his mouth.

"Yeah, very interesting," grunted Bonnie, marching over while cradling her arm. "Now how about my arm? It burns like Samhradh's scalding snatch."

The halfling faith was syncretic, accumulating gods the way an orc accumulated livestock. A consequence of which was that they had a real talent for colorful blasphemy. It was almost endearing.

Vex walked over. "Lemme see the wound," all while Kink-Nose and Spiral-Tats crowded her, with Batugei's cross-armed silhouette visible in her peripheral vision.

Two longitudinal lacerations ran down the back of the right arm. Each was contaminated with troll mass, most likely blood judging from the blue-green coloration. That it hadn't started to differentiate into other tissue types was promising: if the surface of the wounds had been coated in troll skin, not even limb amputation would have saved the halfling.

Vex started to move her arms when she remembered they were currently tied behind her back. Swallowing a sigh, she turned to Kink-Nose and said, "Starting at the wrist and working your way toward the elbow, squeeze the flesh half an inch to either side of the lacerations." Then, to Bonnie, she said, "And you, let me know if it feels like you're being burned or if it’s just the regular kind of painful."

Kink-Nose started to act when Spiral-Tats stopped him. "Let me," she said.

Was she the physician in the group or was this one of those annoying, relationship-sex things? Fuck, it could be both; you never knew with mammals, and halflings were randier than most. Just the thought made Vex glad didn't have to deal with that rank stupidity.

A colorful chain of epithets followed from Bonnie as Spiral-Tats worked her way up the injured arm. Vex had them use a pinch of charcoal to mark the two sites where Bonnie's complaints and threats of physical violence had included mention of a burning sensation.

Only two lateral branchings found. That was good. Still, the lines of inflammation extending out from the injury sites spoke of an infection on the cusp of spreading intravenously.

Vex spent a moment considering her options before nodding to herself. "Okay. This is salvageable," she said, her words coming out a little slurred. Half the teeth in her mouth were broken, the rest being a mishmash of molars adept at grinding plant matter.

Kink-Nose's face lit up. "Really?!"

Spiral-Tats' expression went the opposite direction. "How?" she asked skeptically.

Vex was about to say something harsh when she found herself unable to provide the accompanying gesture on account of being tied up.

_Right. That._

Instead, she took a breath and said, "We'll use quicklime to burn out the troll mass growing in her arm. Everyone thinks acid is the way to go with trolls, but a potent alkali is more effective."

"Quicklime?" asked Kink-Nose. "As in, the powder used to make cement?"

Spiral-Tats counted her objections on one hand. "One: we don't have quicklime. Two: if we were going to burn it out, we'd just use fire. And three: if we tried to burn it out, we'd have to amputate the arm after, which I've been trying not to do."

"I'm definitely for the 'don't cut off my arm' plan," added Bonnie, her breathing a little shallow from pain.

Once more, Vex tried to bring her arms around and was stopped by the rope binding her wrists. With a growl, she flopped back in the dirt, drawing her legs up and looping her arms under before scrabbling back to her feet — an advantage to sho-bakemonos having proportionately long arms and short torsos. Then she glared at Spiral-Tats and started counting off her points, starting with her middle finger. "One: you've got fucking wagons full of limestone so we can make some godsdamned quicklime. Two: fire's for morons who don't know enough chemistry to fill a thimble. And three: no fucking shit, which is why we're using layered applications of quicklime instead of jabbing her with a lit-fucking-torch!"

A breath of stunned quiet passed and then Kink-Nose said in a mild voice, "How do you know all this?"

"BECAUSE I'M SMARTER THAN YOU!" Vex roared in frustration.

There was a blur of motion and then Bonnie's left fist collided with Vex's forehead.

"Don't you go shouting at Deag like that!"

The ground struck the back of Vex's head right after. The sho-bakemono was unable to do anything for a long moment but lie there, stunned.

There was a beat of silence and then the orc said in a dry tone, "I think I understand how you came to have so many broken teeth."

It was at this time that Angry Auburn walked over. The middle-aged halfling looked down at Vex. "Will this quicklime treatment work?"

Still trying to blink the spots out of her vision, Vex only nodded in response.

The halfling then bent at the waist and asked, "You're prepared to guarantee that with your life?" The hint of iron in her voice did not go unnoticed.

Vex looked up at the woman, finding not an inch of give in her expression. "Yeah," she said, her head still ringing from the blow. "I am."

Angry Auburn nodded. "Good. Deaglán, get the shobo on her feet. Betha, Anlon, unload some limestone." Turning back to Vex, she said, "What do we do first?"

* * *

"Trolls are abominations, one of the creatures that crawled up out of the flesh pits," explained Vex, pacing as she lectured. "You can think of them as walking tumors with teeth."

Anlon and Deaglán were tending the limepit with staves hewn from a nearby tree. Eithne had cleaned out some tin cups to use as ad hoc beakers and she had her tattoo kit laid out; Vex would have preferred proper surgical tools but those were hard to find above ground.

"The troll you fought wasn't one creature but rather an entire colony of troll matter, all mushed together into a body and looking for food."

Even though they only needed a small amount of quicklime, it would still take time for the limepit to produce enough. Being unable to do more than wait, Vex had started fielding questions.

"If you carved out a fist-sized ball of troll matter, that ball would try to grow itself a new body."

To Vex's surprise, it wasn't just the halflings but also the orc that were listening. That Batugei apparently understood some Tahduth meant he must be a brighter than average example of the breed.

"The troll blood in Bonnie's wounds is growing into a new troll?" asked the orc himself. He was idly brushing down his zebra while he listened.

"Firstly, there isn't one troll," answered Vex. "There're colonies of troll matter. Imagine an ant hive if all the ants could lay eggs, not just the queens. If you grabbed a dozen ants and carried them far away, you would have two colonies: one comprised of thousands of ants, one comprised of only a few. It's theorized that only one troll climbed out of the flesh pits and all the ones wandering around Creation are buds that split off from it."

Batugei considered this while concurrently his zebra turned its head to give Vex the stink eye. Lovely. "And secondly?" the orc asked.

"Secondly, a fist-sized ball of troll matter is a shitty predator and is pretty much doomed to starve away unless someone decided to hand-feed it until it was big enough to grow limbs and a mouth. That's why you don't end up with a hundred new trolls every time someone fights one and spills some of its flesh or blood around."

Bonnie was seated with the others, halfway through her next wineskin. "So why is the little shit doing a bang-up job gnawing on me?"

"Because to the troll matter, your body is a feast, a giant pile of yummy meat for it to grow off of," answered Vex. "Right now the colony's too small to grow teeth or a stomach, so it can only digest a tiny bit of you at a time. And there's not enough of you to grow a viable troll anyway; the colony is going to starve to death no matter what, it's just going to kill you along the way."

"You heard the shobo," snarked Eithne. "Bonnie's so sour, she’d gag a troll," a quip which earned chuckles from the group and a playful slug in the shoulder from Bonnie.

Vex squinted. Yeah, probably a sex thing.

"How's the quicklime going to save Bonnie exactly?" called Deaglán from the limepit.

"We're going to use the tattoo needles to inject the stuff into every layer of the troll matter," answered Vex, the shobo annoyed at the slur to her speech. New teeth would grow in and replace the broken ones, but that didn't make it any better in the moment. "Troll matter ingests just about anything it touches, especially when it's too small a colony to form something like a brain. And once it’s seeded with enough of the stuff, we'll powder some on the surface and get it wet."

Anlon, who Vex was now certain had training as a smith, frowned. "Quicklime is nasty stuff when quenched. It burns like cinders."

"Exactly," answered Vex. "Slaking quicklime causes a chemical reaction that makes it heat up and release gas. Troll skin has some resistance to temperature variance, but if you heat up the inside of a troll, you'll kill it off fast."

Amidst questions like ‘What’s a chemical?’ came, "Isn't that pretty much the same as burning it out?" That one came from Betha, who was sitting next to Eithne.

"It's more localized," countered Vex. "Plus, it's not just heat, since quicklime is a potent alkali. It’ll burn and dissolve the troll colony, inside and out."

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" asked Bonnie, her cheeks flush from the alcohol.

"Like a bitch," answered Vex.

The blonde halfling responded by draining the rest of the wineskin.

* * *

It rubbed Vex's fur the wrong way to be confined to yet another wagon while under watch. That had been happening too damn much in her life lately. The difference, however, was that this time she had a great bundle of parchment and writing supplies. Why, if she focused hard enough on the formulas she was transcribing from memory, she could almost forget the others were even there.

"Supper's done!" cried the halfling who had just poked his head through the wagon's cover.

Or not.

Batugei, Vex's current guard, weaved through the wagon's stony contents and accepted the platter of sizzling meat being offered by the noisy halfling. Late that afternoon, the orc had managed to hunt down a feral pig, which had promptly gone on a spit.

Vex sat up from her writing, an audible rumble coming from her midsection. While pork paled in importance to the elemental liberation ratios of vulgar and precious metals, it also smelled _really damn good._ Timeless truths of eldritch importance would still be there, waiting for Vex, but it'd only take a few minutes for the roast to get cold.

Setting her writing carefully aside, Vex started to rise when a large orc hand was thrust in her face, a steaming bowl held in the upraised palm.

"Your supper. Eat and be satisfied—” The orc paused, an easy smile transitioning to a look of mild chagrin. “I don’t have your name.” He shook his head, chuckling at his own folly. “Introductions went overlooked with everything going on. Batugei of the Daguur,” he said, grinning down at her.

“Vex of nowhere-in-particular,” she said a little absently as she took the proffered bowl. A flotilla of diced onions, sweet potatoes, and carrots stared back at her from the steaming broth. Without looking up, she accepted the trail biscuit and wooden spoon that followed.

“Eat and be satisfied, Vex of nowhere,” said Batugei in good humor, finishing some ritual of orc etiquette. Then the orc —and more importantly, the pork— moved to the back of the wagon, pulling an eating knife from his hip and getting situated in the far corner.

"The fuck is this?" barked Vex.

Batugei finished cutting through a bit of shoulder meat and only then looked up to meet Vex's eyes. "Your supper." A heartbeat and then, "Eithne has been checking on Bonnie and she says she's holding up well, that the injuries aren't worsening and should be mendable by a priest. I believe Deaglán seasoned the broth with added salt as a gesture of thanks." The orc winked and then turned back to his cutting.

Salt as seasoning was a luxury. Even the winter elves, who were by most standards opulently wealthy, had to use it in moderation. But still—

"Great. But why am I gnawing on fucking carrots while you—" She paused to peek through the canvas cover. The halflings huddled around a campfire, skewers of meat being passed around the circle. "—while everyone gets fucking pork?" she loudly amended.

Batugei set aside his platter. Ironically, the aura of menace around the orc only increased when a beat later he set aside his knife. "You will not be given meat," commanded the orc, all pretense of affability gone.

Vex shrank back a little. "Is this a captive thing?"

Batugei shook his head. "It is a bakemono thing. Some herds drive away all shobos, others enslave them, but in my herd, we let them live among us as cottars."

Vex reflexively made sure she wasn't in danger of knocking the bowl of soup onto her parchments, but otherwise kept her attention trained on the orc.

"It is known to the Daguur that a shobo who eats meat may sire a daibo," said Batugei. He lifted his chin to show a scar that ran vertically down his neck —a pale line visible among the brownish green skin— before disappearing into his woolen shirt. It wasn't far from the carotid artery.

"To feed a shobo meat is to train a rabid dog. It is not a question of if you will be bitten, only when and whether you'll survive it," he finished.

Vex relaxed a little at that, a grin spreading across broken and uneven teeth. "Oh, okay. See, that's not a problem. There's no relationship between a bakemono's diet and their progeny's adult phenotype. If the neonates forage enough meat, they grow into a daibos, regardless of how much or how little pork you let your shobos have."

She was about to explain how the other phenotypes —o-bakemonos and sho-bakemeonos— developed, but she stopped herself when she noticed Batugei's pensive expression.

The orc sat in silence for a long moment, looking into the middle distance. The brownish-green fingers of one hand drummed against the like-colored knuckles of the other. Then his eyes focused on Vex.

"That may be true. Not everything true is known to the Daguur, and not everything known is true."

That was a far more reasonable response than what Vex was expecting, her furry brow rising in surprise.

The orc leaned forward, hands resting on his outstretched legs. "However, here I cannot tell which statement breeds true. Do I let you have meat then raise your whelp to see if she tries to butcher me and a caravan of nomads?" and he laughed, as if discerning facts via experimentation were absurd. "No. Either the Daguur are right or you are; either allowing you meat is dangerous or it isn't. But if you eat only plants then it makes no difference." He flashed Vex a genial smile, clearly seeing the matter settled and turning back to his meal.

"But that's bullshit!" challenged Vex. "You're enshrining ignorance as dogma because, what? Seriously considering the alternatives would be inconvenient?"

Batugei glared at Vex before baring his throat, one finger tracing the line of the scar. "This was no inconvenience. Two women were maimed —one did not survive the season due to her wounds— and four whelps were cut down before the daibos were slain. The other herds that allow no shobos or feed them only a slave's gruel, they point and say that the Daguur are foolish. 'See how the funeral birds circle over their herd? When a shobo cottar sows, daibos grow among the crops.'"

A part of Vex wanted to meet glare with glare but she couldn't. Like salt, pride was a luxury that Vex could only afford in moderation.

Batugei continued. "They are wrong, these naysayers. The shobo of the Daguur are gentle and hardworking. Orc, shobo, and livestock are all better off for their presence. So do not quarrel with me about risk or ignorance. Every daibo sired is a knife raised to the throats of others. Even if it never strikes me or the people I know, it will strike someone, and that is why you must gnaw carrots."

The orc sighed and his tone went from lecturing to almost a little sad, as if he was shouldering an unpleasant weight. "It is known to the Daguur that shobos grow teeth to match their diet. If I see a carnivore's tooth in your mouth, I will see you punished for it, even if I must do so myself." He frowned slightly, then nodded to himself as if in solemn satisfaction.

The silence stretched out between them.

The orc retrieved his platter and began cutting. Then he looked up and said with a genial grin, "Shona feeds her caravan well, and with as much variety as the road allows. You will eat well even if carrots are not to your liking. And should you want something special and need a merchant intimidated, I can be your larger shadow in the marketplace."

The issue settled, Batugei turned to his food, eating with knife and fingers.

Vex sat there for a span of time, swallowing an unpleasant stew of feelings. Then she picked up her bowl and spoon, a carrot with broth going to her mouth. The flavor was fine, but it was still a bitter mouthful to swallow.

* * *

Dusk was transitioning to night and the halflings had been sent to their bedrolls. Batugei had left as well, his snoring audible even halfway across the ring of wagons. The halfling looking after Vex had settled into a corner and hadn't stirred in some time, the deep, even breathing of sleep telling Vex everything she needed to know.

Vex was too restless to sleep. Even without the distant glow of the campfire, there was enough moonlight for bakemono eyes to see by, which was how Vex was still scratching at her parchment. She had a keen memory, but it wasn't infallible, so she was riding an ongoing sense of relief at writing down her research. At the same time, she wanted to shout at her dumb quill, ink, and parchment for requiring hours of hand-cramping work to contain ideas she could verbalize in minutes.

The ambivalence was almost more exhausting than the actual scrivening.

There was movement at the back of the wagon. Shona climbed in, the auburn halfling taking a seat on a modest limestone block opposite Vex. She had an empty sack in one hand for no readily apparent reason.

_What fucking now?_

"Do you have a physician's training?" Shona asked. The cast of her shoulders was relaxed, but there was tension in her still, like a tight-wrapped coil. She didn't bother glancing at the 'guard' snoozing in the corner.

Vex considered whether to lie and to what degree. However, there was a canniness to Shona's gaze that Vex recognized. The halfling wasn't a centuries-old winter elf oligarch, but there were some similarities. "Not really," Vex answered honestly. "But I know enough anatomy and chemistry to get me halfway there."

"You also know about trolls," observed Shona. "A lot about trolls, in fact. Most people feel clever if they tell you to swing a torch at one."

Vex shrugged. "I used to live below ground. All those flesh pits that once led up to the surface are still there, still generating abominations. The things that crawl out just don't crawl up as often anymore. Common knowledge is different down in the Umbra."

Shona made a noncommittal grunt. "Can you fight?"

Vex gave a harsh bark of laughter, wry to the point of acerbic. "Fuck no. I could probably whip a kobold if it was unarmed and didn't possess sorcery, but it'd be an embarrassing thing to watch."

The dim light showed the corner of Shona's mouth curling up in amusement...and agreement.

The figure in the corner snorted and muttered something indecipherable before going quiet once more.

"Know any trades?" the auburn halfling asked after another moment had passed.

"Some. Toolmaking, leatherworking, glassblowing. I can sharpen knives, and I'm not too shitty at woodcarving, though don't expect any artistry," answered Vex. "I know numbers the way an orc knows animals, and I'm the best scribe you'll find without pointy ears."

"[Do you speak Khel?]" she asked.

"[Mostly Khalmyk, but they're pretty similar,]" Vex answered fluidly.

"[What about Shitagau?]" she asked, switching to the language hobs used when speaking with their lessers.

"[It's a good language for condescension,]" the shobo answered back.

Shona chuckled. Setting down her empty sack, she responded by moving her hands, fingers signing as she used the language hobs used with their peers. [That it is. How's your Mimi Te?]

[Better than yours,] answered Vex, the statement backed up by the fact that she had included the little coughs and grunts used by actual hobs.

In fact, she only knew a little of the language, but she felt confident it was more than Shona would be able to call her on.

A few heartbeats passed. "You're bullshitting me," the halfling said.

[Maybe,] answered Vex with her hands. [Are you sure?] The chirp at the end denoted smug satisfaction, an inflection Vex had made certain to learn when she'd had the chance.

"[You, this know Løfte. I think don't.]" graveled out Shona, the dwarven words coming out in an ungrammatical jumble.

"Fuck, that was terrible," answered Vex, first in Caint and then again in Løfte. "Was the dwarf that taught you that too drunk or just hungover?"

"Go lick Fngri's saddle," answered Shona, flipping Vex off for good measure.

"I write Løfte better than I speak it," added Vex, the exchange of insults making her feel a little more relaxed.

"Can you handle their numbers?" pressed Shona.

Vex nodded. "Sure. It's an eight-number counting system instead of ten, so the conversions aren't that difficult."

Shona considered this, then she nodded to herself. "It looks like you did good with Bonnie, so you get a ride to Dahir, beatings-free." A heartbeat passed. "With no beatings you don't bring down on yourself," she amended.

Without realizing it, Vex reached up to rub the spot where Bonnie had clocked her earlier.

"And once we get there, you can leave, or you can stick around...as long as you're worth your pay," Shona said casually.

Vex stared at her uncomprehendingly. That was not where she expected this conversation to wind up.

Shona filled the silence. "A friend in Hirata mentioned that there were dwarves in Kusatsu being ransomed back after years of negotiation. All the caravans are getting swept up in the big settler migration that's brewing, so I snagged the job of carting them out of the Khanate. There should be a writ of passage waiting for us in Dahir."

Vex mulled this over. Given how far Hirata, Kusatsu, and Dahir were from one another, there weren't a lot of ways to get a message from the first to the second, let alone to have an answer waiting at the third inside of a few weeks. "Orcish outrider?" she hazarded. A rider could make it if they had a horse or zebra bred for stamina.

"Carrow courier," answered Shona.

That caused Vex's eyebrows to climb up her forehead. The carrow were an aloof and very strange race but they had wings —three of them!— and could fly for days at a time. They weren't able to carry much and their services didn't come cheaply, but they were literally the fastest option for carrying a message across the surface.

The dwarves must be paying one heck of a ransom if they were springing for a carrow to carry that writ of passage.

Which meant it'd be helpful to have someone who knew their dwarven numerals and could string together a coherent sentence in Løfte.

"I'll think about it," Vex answered eventually, still a little unbalanced by the situation.

"You do that." Then Shona picked up that sack at her feet and held it out toward Vex. "Now go and put your parchments in there. You can keep hold of the inkwells if you're worried about spills."

Where she'd earlier been casual, the hint of iron was back in Shona's voice.

Vex's hands went defensively to her notes, but her eyes narrowed as she considered this demand. "You want collateral," she said after a few heartbeats.

"The writings go in the sack every night and you get them back in the morning if nothing turns up missing." Shona's tone was bone dry. "It looks like you did good with Bonnie, but you still snuck into one of my wagons." 

"Plus, I'm a shobo," hissed Vex.

Shona gave a modest tilt of the head, less a confirmation and more an absence of a negation. "If you don't want me to ask why you snuck in, or to find out how you really broke all your teeth, you'll put that writing in the sack. All of it. Every night. Period."

Vex stared at the woman long and hard. Those papers represented the first break she'd gotten in...entirely too long. Already, there were details, some big, some small, that were failing to resurface when she tried to recall it all. Some she could work back to or derive from first principles, but others could only be had from exactly the sort of place she hoped never to return to. Plus, if this caravan could shelter her from yet another fucking setback, to say nothing of what she could do with a modest income…

The parchments were placed carefully into the sack, though Vex was unable to keep the look of distress off her face as she handed them over.

"See you in the morning, shobo," said Shona, rising from her seat. She started to let herself out of the rear of the wagon.

"See you in the morning, halfling," answered Vex.

Shona paused, the barb hitting its mark. She departed without looking back.

Vex sealed up her inkwells, then carefully stowed those along with her quills. One of the halflings had given her a woolen cloak that was sized for a human. For her it was big enough to act as blanket and bedroll both, though she first had to clear her sleeping area of stray bits of limestone gravel.

There was a snort from the wagon's corner. The halfling sat up unsteadily and said in a bleary voice, "I'm watching you. Nothing gets by me."

"[Choke on your own tongue and perish, wretch,]" snapped Vex, the swear a familiar one delivered in the winter elven dialect of Tahduth. Snatching up the nearby cloak, she curled up on the wagon bed and glowered at the canvas cover.

"...What?" muttered the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quicklime is some pretty nasty stuff, especially [once it gets wet](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calcium_oxide#Uses) (there's a handy video demonstrating that in the linked Wikipedia article).
> 
> Also, trolls: it's not just the claws and teeth that are dangerous.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this first glimpse of Vex. Expect more on how she wound up in that smuggler's compartment next week, along with her first (hopefully) non-coercive days among the caravan.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	11. Long in the Tooth (Vex's Past)

> _Obo-Daibo-Shobo is a game that originated among the noisy races that has gradually become popular among hobs as well. Two players chant in unison ‘Obo, daibo, shobo,’ and then each makes a sign with one hand._
> 
> _The sign for the obo is a fist made as if clutching a club. The sign for the daibo is the hand open wide and on-edge to the opponent like the blade of a knife. The sign for the shobo is a hand, palm forward, fingers splayed out and grasping as if about to pilfer something._
> 
> _The obo uses its club to crush the daibo. The daibo uses its knife to stab the shobo. The shobo uses its guile to outwit the obo. If the players throw the same sign, the game is played anew._
> 
> _While of base origin, the game can be played silently, which is a virtue found rarely among the entertainments of the noisier races. It is also common among the lower ranks of the soldiery, used to settle minor disputes._
> 
> _It is for these reasons that I encourage the ban on the practice be lifted. It is true that a firm hand is needed to guide our less civilized citizens into harmonious behavior. But not so firm that it engenders undue resentment; not so firm that it can never be a club, knife, or grasping fingers._

\- _An Appeal to Measured Frivolity_ by Yokoyama Yuto, junior magistrate

* * *

“How old are you?”

“Don’t know.” Vex took a bite out of a thin stick and crunched it noisily between her teeth.

“Could you guess?”

“Not really.” More crunching.

Baros furrowed his brows but pressed on. “Where are you from?”

“Don’t know.”

Baros laid his quill down and fixed Vex with a look, his usual good-natured expression absent. “If you’re not going to cooperate, then—”

Vex spat a wad of wood pulp over the wagon’s side. “Hey, I’m not jerking you around, dipshit. If any bakemono tells you they know how old they are, they’re lying. We start out small and dumb, animals really, and it isn’t until we get big enough that we kind of wake up for the first time. So I’ve got no fucking idea, and besides which I was living underground when I did wake. Can’t count the days or the seasons in a fucking subterranean mushroom field.”

“Oh, you’re from the Umbra,” he said, all enthusiasm again, pausing to take a note. “What’s—”

“Hang on,” Vex interrupted. The sho-bakemono leaned forward as much as her chain would allow. “You’re fucking writing it wrong. That means ‘deep night’ which sure as shit isn’t the word for Umbra. That’s for the long nights you get at the icy ends of the planet.”

Baros squinted at Vex, then at his writing, and then back to Vex. “You write? You write Tahduth?”

Vex gestured for Baros to reorient so she could see the parchment better without having to lean against her restraints. He did.

“Better than you do, apparently.” Wetting a stick with her mouth, she swept the hay-strewn wagon floor and then drew some flowing script in the dust. “See this? That’s how you write 'Umbra'. In the summer elven dialect they combine the words for ‘winter’ and ‘home’ because that’s where the fucking winter elves live. In winter elven, it’s called, ‘the space’ and it’s written like this.”

Baros and one of the halflings gawked, the latter asking, “What do they call the surface?”

Vex drew it. “‘Bright space,’ though bright means a couple different things in Winter Tahduth, most bad.”

Baros was writing hurriedly. After a bit he glanced up. “How do you know all this?”

Vex swatted a fat fly that was buzzing around. She nearly popped it in her mouth but then she thought better of it, throwing it over the side with a touch of remorse.

Sticks tasted fucking awful.

Surly, she said, “Because Vex is ‘assistant’ in Winter Tahduth.”

It was actually ‘experiment’ or ‘experimental subject’ depending on context, but Baros sure as shit didn’t know better.

* * *

“What’s his deal, anyway?”

The orc, Hulagu, looked back into the wagon. Baros was visible writing in his journal. “Him?” he asked, his Caint accented.

Vex switched to Khalmyk. “[No, I mean the fucking horse.]”

“[Oh, it’s a percheron gelding, twelve seasons old. Maybe a shire grandmare judging from the—]”

Vex scowled. “[I didn’t actually mean the damn horse. I meant that asshole,]” and she jabbed a thumb in Baros’ direction.

“[I know, but I’d rather talk about the horse.]”

Baros cleared his throat but didn’t look up from his writing. “[I speak Khalmyk too, you know.]”

“[We all do, dipshit. You want a gold coin or something?]” answered Vex.

Hulagu smiled a carnivore’s smile, though the teeth were uniform compared to a dai-bakemono. “[He’s a skald, or he wants to be. No instrument—]”

“[Broken when a ferry's contents shifted and my luggage was crushed,]” clarified Baros.

“[—so he’s not all _that_ bad. Talks like a rooster that thinks every moment is dawn, though.]”

Baros blotted the parchment to keep the ink from running and then closed the book, finally looking up. “[What other languages do you speak?]”

Vex grabbed up a stick and sat down, switching back to Caint as she spoke. “One more after you teach me Mimi Te.”

Baros chuckled. “So long as you’ll teach me more Winter Tahduth.”

“Sure, sure,” Vex said, waving him off. “Make with the hob-talk already. If I’m gonna meet a magistrate, better I speak the local tongue.”

Baros nodded. “The first thing to realize is that you’ll be using your tongue very little. Most of Mimi Te is conveyed with the hands.”

Vex raised her stock-encased wrists, her expression bone dry.

“Yeah, that’s going to suck,” said Baros. “For you.”

“Fuuuck.”

* * *

Halflings, both the pair from the wagons as well as the crew of the ship, were busy transferring the cargo. Seeing a halfling bent double and hauling a trunk on its back that had to weigh two hundred pounds or more? The sight reminded Vex of ants.

 _Though the ants wouldn’t eat nearly as much, even accounting for the difference in size,_ thought Vex while idly playing with her restraint. It was tethered to a dock piling while the wagons were being emptied.

Baros the apprentice bard walked over with a tall pile of sticks in his arms. Several had gotten tangled in his beard, which put a smile on Vex's face.

"Think these will be enough?" he asked, setting the bundle down and then struggling to free his chin from the pile's grasp.

"Naw. Two more to be sure. Don't want to have to start eating the boat if we run out." Vex briefly considered tripping one of the worker ants before her survival instinct and her imagination paired up to illustrate just how thoroughly her ass would get kicked afterwards.

“You can eat stuff other than sticks, right?” asked Baros, finally freeing himself.

One of the halfling stevedores snorted.

Vex rolled her eyes. “I could eat everything in that boat, people included. Then I could eat the boat itself and shit out the nails.” She stuck a short stick between two molars and began to grind it into pulp. “Not everything is nutritious, or worth the time chewing, but your buddy over here is probably thinking of the expression, ‘Could gag a bakemono,’ which is why they’re thinking you’re a dumb-shit yokel for asking.”

The halfling in question smiled and nodded. “Pretty much.”

Baros shook his head. “Let me rephrase my question then. _Why_ are you eating sticks? You obviously have better options,” and he gestured to the barrel of food the stevedore was hauling.

“Hirata’s wooded, right?” and Baros nodded. Vex continued. “Say I get there, talk to the magistrate, and get turned loose because of my good behavior and shining personality.”

Hulagu and a halfling helper were tending the horses nearby. Both snickered at that.

Vex ignored them. “No one wants bakemonos around, so they chase me out. It’s nearing winter, we aren’t in evergreen territory, so I’m going to be left with a forest full of a whole lot of…?” She inflected the final word up into a question.

“Sticks,” finished Baros.

Vex nodded. “I’d clap, but…” and she waggled her stock-entrapped hands. “Thing is, it takes a while for bakemonos to grow in the right teeth when their diet changes, so I'd hate to avoid the axe only to starve right after."

"You know, on the slim chance that you do survive the magistrate, there is another option available to you. Besides living on sticks in the forest, I mean," Baros said invitingly.

Vex pivoted, having to step over her chain to face the human squarely. "Oh, I could tag along with you? Earn warm food and company as your assistant? Pool our knowledge and learn fascinating new things?"

Baros smiled guilelessly. "Exactly."

"Yeah, heard it before. Fuck that." Vex spat. "Fuck that with a winter elf flensing knife."

Baros blinked as if wondering where the punch had come from. "What? Why?"

"Because no one gives two shits about bakemonos except other bakemonos. I used to call the obos and diabos xenophobic—" On instinct Vex tried to bring her hand to the marks on her skin but was blocked by the stocks. "—but these days I think they're just fucking perceptive."

Baros stared at Vex for a long second before stalking off in the direction of the boat.

When a halfling later detached her chain from the piling and started to lead her towards the vessel, Vex resisted. "Hey, who's gonna grab my godsdamned sticks?!"

She looked around. The stevedores were busy, or pretending to be. Looking back at Hulagu, the orc made a point of ignoring her. When his small helper's eyes lingered overlong on the sho-bakemono, he thumped the halfling in the back of the head to get them on task.

Vex made a clumsy grab for the pile but the chain was yanked and she was stopped short. She was hauled like so much cargo onboard the river boat.

"Way to prove my point, you fucking assholes!" she shouted before being shoved below deck.

* * *

Vex moaned and struggled to stay positioned over the chamber pot.

 _You'd think with all the roughage—_ she joked inwardly before a cramp obliterated the thought.

She moaned again.

"Shut the hells up," shouted one of the halflings attempting to sleep below deck. There was a chorus of grunts in agreement.

After the cramp passed, Vex shouted, "You can kiss my cloaca, pal!"

"Cloa— The hells?" said one, but the others settled for general muttering and let the exchange drop.

Finally, there was a push, a splash below, and a profound sense of relief. Vex half-sat, half-collapsed in the corner, taking care not to knock over the pot.

There was a faint scratching sound within.

"You can fucking wait. Mommy needs a breather."

A few minutes passed and then Vex drew in a breath and shouted, "Hey fuck-sticks! Want me to shut the fuck up? Go get Baros." She was a little breathless by the end.

It took a few more rounds of loud insults but the sailors eventually kicked someone out of their bunk to find whoever the crazy sho-bakemono was shouting about.

Vex heard the footfalls of something heavier than a halfling coming her way.

"Vex," said a weary Baros, coming into view with a lamp in hand. One of the halflings from the wagon was a step behind. "What's—"

Vex raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the light. "Gah! Point that somewhere else, dammit!"

Baros sighed and held a hand in front of the lamp. "You weren't light-sensitive before," he remarked.

"I've been confined to the hold for, what, three days?"

"Nearly a week."

"Yeah. It ain't exactly bright down here. My eyes think I'm underground and have adapted. Fuck, I still have spots in my vision," Vex muttered, carefully rubbing her eyes so that she didn't bonk herself with the stocks.

Another sigh from Baros. "Vex, what do you want?"

"I need two things. First: food." Vex's stomach growled loudly to accentuate the point.

"There aren't any sticks on the—"

"Fuck sticks. They taste awful and I was near-starving living off them before. I'll get back on the stick-wagon later, but right now I need some real godsdamned food. As much as a tall fuck like you would eat for a meal."

Baros leaned forward peering into the gloom, lamp held high. Vex muttered imprecations as he did. "Are you sick? Your hair looks patchy."

"Shedding. It's warm down here."

Baros shook his head. "Your body really doesn't sit still, does it?"

"Not unless my environment does. Anyway," and Vex nudged the chamber pot towards Baros. "The second thing I need is for that to be emptied over the side. Sooner or later the little shit's going to claw free. Boat full of feed like this? By the time we dock, you'll have a lot less hay and a baby o-bakemono to deal with."

The pot rattled, Baros and the halfling startling in a way that'd be funny if Vex weren't both starving and bone-tired.

"You were pregnant?!" // "You're a girl?!" said Baros and the halfling over one another.

“Fuck, for someone who knows so much, you sure are ignorant,” muttered Vex. "Bakemonos are all female, and we've been so screwed by life that we're always pregnant. Once a season I have a shit that tries to crawl out of the chamber pot."

A talon appeared at the lip of the pot before slipping and landing with a splash in the contents below.

"And if you don't throw it over the fucking side of the boat then we'll have the feral little ko-bakemono running around, figuring out if there's enough food to grow up big and, if so, as what type."

The halfling peered forward to get a better glimpse of what was within the pot, then pulled back and made a nauseated 'hurp!'

"Miracle of fuckin' life," drawled Vex. "Now send that kobo for a swim to shore and get me some godsdamned food."

Baros handed the lamp to the sickened halfling. Then, gingerly, his face scrunched up while trying to breathe through his mouth, he hefted the pot. Something struggled within, which only served to send the bard faster in the direction of the stairs.

"Bring that light, dammit," he barked at the halfling, sounding distressed. "I do _not_ want to trip."

* * *

Vex ate hungrily. Baros stood a little ways back, leaning against a wall, waiting for the sho-bakemono to finish. When the last of the food had vanished and Vex was snatching up crumbs, Baros spoke, albeit in a hushed voice so as not to disturb the sleeping sailors.

"Now that your fur is thinning out, I can't help but notice the tattoos underneath. Looks like they cover your entire body."

Vex clumsily swept a few morsels into one palm, the stocks complicating the task. "Got any sticks, beardy?" she asked before transferring the contents to her mouth.

"A whole bushel." He paused. "Once we go ashore."

Vex gave a noncommittal grunt.

"It's Winter Tahduth writing, I can tell that much," he observed. "But I can't make out even a tenth of the words." He looked at Vex, his quill finger clearly itching to write. "What's the story there?"

Vex leaned back against the bulkhead, belly bulging slightly. Her eyes were half-lidded. "What have you heard about the winter elves?"

"Nothing good."

"Exactly. Sorry, Baros, but that bushel just gets you a name. There's not enough sticks in the world to buy the full story."

Baros was silent for a long moment before he nodded his head.

Vex's hand went up and traced the ink-stained scar on her throat. "'Vorkin'Set.' And if you're ever anywhere where that name means anything, best you don't go saying it."

Vex lowered her hands and closed her eyes, fatigue closing around her. A while later she heard Baros' retreating footsteps.

 _Besides, I haven't figured out what half the damn tattoos mean myself._ For the thousandth time, she pined for her lost research.

* * *

The lights of Hirata shimmered below. It and the cook fires of countless orcs competed to light up the dark. The lowing and bleating of livestock were faintly audible.

The boat was two weeks behind them and their destination less than a day ahead. They'd camped on this hill because a rocky outcropping offered shelter from the cold wind.

"—need to get to a good steader town," complained one of the halflings.

"You mammalf and your fex drive," Vex groused, chewing on a stick like it had insulted her personally. Her incisors were so large that they made her upper lips bulge, and she lisped some of her words.

The halfling shook his head. "Sex? Gods, no. I still haven't gotten over what I saw on that boat." He pulled out a leather pouch that was nearly empty. "I just want some more pipe-weed."

Baros finished blotting the ink and then looked up. "We'll be handing you over tomorrow, Vex. If there's anything else you want recorded for posterity..." He trailed off in invitation.

Vex answered in Mimi Te, signing as well as the stocks of metal-reinforced wood allowed. [Everyone here is an asshole.]

Baros chuckled and closed his book. "So, nothing new then?"

[Also, your beard is ugly.]

He stroked his chin. "You should be so lucky."

[Bitch, I have a full-body beard,] and Vex gestured over her fur.

The other halfling leaned towards Hulagu. "If those two are flirting, I'm gonna have to swear off sex too."

Vex finished her stick, grabbed another, and chewed on it suggestively, eyebrows waggling. She looked around the group while she did, eyes lingering for a few seconds on each.

That was everyone's cue to, loudly, call it a night.

* * *

When Baros woke up, he noticed the blood first. Which was strange because he really should have noticed the more obvious detail that Vex was missing.

The stock was still shackled to the wagon, but half of it was in ruins, with chunks gouged out between the metal reinforcements like someone had taken a dull hatchet to it. There were wood fragments strewn everywhere and bits of...bone?

He stooped to look closer, holding the white material up to catch the morning light.

Not bone. A tooth. The wagon bed was strewn with wood bits, blood, and broken teeth.

Baros stared blankly, his recent sleep making his thoughts slow, until he spied the pile of sticks. It all clicked into place.

He reached for his bag and was about to call for the caravan leader when his words died in his throat. He ripped open the bag and found...

His journal was gone. His inkwell was gone, as was his backup inkwell. His quills, his blotter, even the tiny knife he used to sharpen the quills. Gone. And every scrap of parchment and writing implement was gone with them.

Part of him felt a kind of relief, a better ending for the tale than the executioner's block. But it was a distant voice. The rest of him was tallying just how expensive all this would be to replace, and the number of hours he'd spend trying to remember even a fifth of what he'd written down. Knowing all that, he hoped those sticks had tasted downright awful.

* * *

The caravan leader looked over the wagon interior. "Gone, eh?" The woman frowned, scowling at the dawn that had dropped this on her lap.

After a moment's thought she turned to the others. "Hulagu, go hunting. Dahey, Padraic," and the two halflings hopped to attention, "You help him."

"What am I hunting, exactly?" asked the orc.

"Sho-bakemono. Go find one and bring it back. Alive and healthy enough to speak, but not healthy enough to speak well."

Hulagu and the halflings nodded and left to gather their things.

Baros blinked. "I don't understand. Shouldn't they be tracking Vex?"

The caravan leader had been talking with a carpenter about fixing the stocks. She paused and looked over at Baros as if she'd forgotten he was there.

"What? No. That shobo is long gone. Probably too clever to get caught a second time. The honorable samurai sent us to deliver a shobo for interrogation and execution to the magistrate. And by all the gods, we will, because we all want to keep our heads attached to our necks."

"But it's the wrong sho-bakemono," pressed Baros.

Again the caravan leader turned back to the bard like he'd only just blinked into existence, and to annoy her, no less.

"Who cares? It's just a bakemono."


	12. Ermine, All Mine!

> _Surround yourself with tools and you will never want for anything...except company. But if you also surround yourself with languages then you’re set for this life and each one to follow._

\- Erenok’Yasa, the Glib

* * *

The wagons were in motion, traveling steadily up the road to Dahir. Seeing as one of the vehicles was down a horse, though, it wasn't traveling particularly fast. This was something of a boon for Vex, since it meant she didn't have nearly as much trouble hopping down from one wagon and then clambering up onto another.

The first two wagons she'd investigated just held limestone and bored halflings. The third was of noticeably nicer construction, the sides decorated with etchings of a stylistic, six-point sun shining down on a submerged spiral, and the wood possessing a reddish hue the others lacked. That wagon also had higher clearance off the ground, which meant Vex had to work twice as hard getting into the damn thing.

With a skipping jump and a scrabble, Vex managed to half-climb, half-topple into the wagon. This was met with a couple of muted chuckles by the occupants but Vex paid them no mind. Instead she cast about, weaving through limestone blocks and looking between barrels of supplies.

_Godsdammit, where—_

"Looking for something?" asked a halfling with vibrant red hair and a patch covering his right eye. He was leaning against a stack of wagon wheels, bedding woven through the spokes to turn the stack into an ad hoc couch.

"The odds pile," she snapped, dark, brown eyes roving the dim interior.

Caravans were like ships in that they spent enough time traveling away from civilization to need extra supplies on hand in case of breaks. But little things added up —loose nails, scraps of leather, blunted knives or bent tools that might one day be mended— and those went into the odds pile.

Shona's employment offer or no, people might balk if Vex started ransacking the caravan for supplies to tinker with. But if you could use something from the odds pile, no one would gainsay that.

"Oh, that," said Eye Patch. Rising from his wheel-backed seat, he walked over to one corner of the wagon and lifted a panel, gesturing within. "Had to shove that in here to make room for all the stone."

With hungry eyes, Vex started to descend on the compartment's contents before the atrophied remnant of her tact kicked in and she said, "Thanks, uh—"

"Tiarnán." He gave a lopsided smile.

Now that Vex cared to pay attention, she noticed a scar running from lip to eye patch and up into his hairline. The skin looked healthy so it was either an old scar that'd healed well, or it'd received priestly attention. She'd never heard of a halfling with facial hair before, but this one was determined to test that boundary with thick mutton chops that ended just before his chin.

Pleasantries out of the way, Vex all but dived into the pile, rummaging through it and gathering up everything that looked even vaguely useful. If she'd stumbled across this back in the forest with the obos, it'd represent a material windfall. She could probably borrow the tools to work this into something useful, but she grabbed a broken-handled hammer and knife bent near to breaking just in case.

"Crafting something?" asked Tiarnán from somewhere behind Vex.

"A belt to start with," she answered. Pivoting around, she gestured at her furry flank and added wryly, "No pockets."

That earned a chuckle and then, "Well, if that’s what you need, I've got a spare tool belt you can have if you'll wait for me to dig it out."

"What, really?"

Getting down on all fours, Tiarnán reached under the stack of wagon wheels, dragging a rugged, canvas bag out. Undoing several clasps, he opened it up to reveal a collection of carpenter's tools. He rummaged around for a few heartbeats before pulling out a battered tool belt —"Here it is."— and handing it to Vex.

She'd have to punch new belt loops in so it'd fit her smaller waist, but otherwise it was perfect. She wasted no time filling the pouches with the scrap she'd retrieved and found herself able to breathe a little deeper. Huh, there'd been a knot inside of her that she hadn't noticed until it had loosened just now, a knot apparently labeled ‘has gear.’

 _Thank you,_ she thought. But what came out of her mouth was, "Who the hells has a spare tool belt lying around?!"

Tiarnán shrugged as he used his foot to shove the bag back under the wheel pile so it wouldn't be underfoot. "Half the tools in that bag were already with the caravan when I joined it, including the belt. I already had my own, so I just left it in there in case mine broke."

"You're a carpenter?" asked Vex. If so, that'd be good to know given that half the tools she'd need to borrow would probably come from him.

One of the other halflings in the wagon looked up from what he was doing —playing a game with another halfling that involved six-sided, painted tiles, from the looks of it— and quipped, "A hard-up one, too. That timber's the only wood of his that gets worked."

The others in the wagon laughed and jeered at the ham-handed innuendo. That Vex only rolled her eyes was restraint on her part; if the other races thought about sex as much as they talked about it, it was a wonder they'd discovered anything other than double entendres and herpes.

Standing there, Tiarnán made a production of raising a palm up to his one good eye. "Ah, that's better. Now I don't have to see Fergus' ugly mug. It was putting me off my breakfast, and I pity you lot that need two hands to do the same."

The laughter in the wagon increased, Fergus chuckling with them before returning to his game of tiles.

Tiarnán returned to his wheel-based seat and said to Vex, "I'm a wheelwright, actually. But there hasn't been much wheel repair needed since Connor joined his wagon to the caravan: he got junior ownership and all the wagons got fancy, summer-wood wheels as part of the deal. We kept the old ones just in case—" and he gestured at his 'seat', "—but I have to justify my pay doing carpentry work instead."

Vex whistled, dexterous facial muscles transforming her expression into one of appraisal and surprise. Summer-wood was timber that had undergone a ritual enchantment, one known to the priests of the elven goddess of summer, Dhak-Sa'dhanum, or Samhradh as the halflings called her. The treatment made the material stronger, flame-resistant, and immune to rot or warping. Back in Vorkin'Set's demesne, Vex had been able to count the pieces of summer-wood furniture on one hand, and this had been a winter elf wealthy enough to have a gilded oubliette.

Then again, precious metals were a lot less precious in the Umbra than on the surface, while wood (summer-wood or otherwise) was a scarce commodity.

"Where do you get that much summer-wood from?" she asked.

Tiarnán gestured and Vex pivoted around to see an open box of trail biscuits. She grabbed one and tossed it to the halfling, who caught it nimbly and took a bite. "Where elfe?" he said around the mouthful before swallowing. "Golwey, on the shore of the Airgead Sea. That's where the big Samhradh temple is. The frame of this entire wagon is summer-wood." He rapped on the wagon bed with one knuckle. "You'd break your ax trying to cut into it."

Before Vex could reply, there was motion at the back of the wagon, and a brunette halfling —Betha— popped her head in through the canvas flap. Vex knew from her own inelegant entry to the wagon that there wasn't a ledge to stand on back there, so Betha had to be doing a sustained chin-up to appear like that. More surprising was the fact that a _ferret_ was draped across her shoulders like a living stole, the brown-and-white animal peering around the wagon's interior, curiously scenting the air.

"Shona said we're not stopping until dinner," Betha announced loudly while the ferret idly nuzzled a pentagonal earring dangling from Betha's ear.

This was met with groans of disappointment from the halflings, as it meant four of their seven meals that day would be taken in transit.

"I know!" exclaimed Betha, once again more loudly than she needed to within the canvas-covered interior. The light from the half-open canvas flap was reflecting off her earrings, sending little spots of light across the wagon interior. "This latest batch of jerky's too salty for Cucullo, but he can't hunt with the wagons moving."

There was something about that ferret's name that was catching Vex's attention. Or maybe it was Betha's pronunciation. Vex studied the animal curiously: it had dark fur running up its shoulders, neck, and ears, but its face was all white. It made it look like it was wearing a cloak with the hood up.

"Weren't there mice in Séamus' wagon?" asked one of the halflings.

"No, that was the shobo," answered another.

"Maybe your ferret could eat her instead," exclaimed Fergus, who clearly had an over-inflated sense of how funny he was.

"Cucullo would _never!"_ Betha objected, scandalized on her ferret's behalf. "He's a sweetie who doesn't bite anyone. Well, except Séamus, but only because he goes out of his way to try and step on Cucullo."

In Caint, the emphasis should have been on the second syllable of the ferret’s name, but Betha was placing it on the first. Why was that drawing Vex’s attention? It was odd, but it shouldn’t be _interesting._

Considering her message delivered, Betha dropped off the back of the wagon, her form briefly visible through the waving canvas flap as she skipped toward the next wagon in the line. The ferret was a brown-and-white rider on her shoulders, the earrings sparkling in the sunlight.

It was the pentagonal earrings that finally did it for Vex: if anything kobold-made had any ornamentation at all, pentagons were guaranteed to feature. _’Cucullo.’ That's what a kobold sorcerer's cowl is called!_

“Betha speaks Vox!” Vex blurted out, drawing stares from the other passengers.

Vex hurried toward the wagon's rear, stumbling on something underfoot as she did. "Wait!" she shouted, scrambling upright and hastily shoveling everything that had spilled out into the too-large tool belt she was carrying. "Betha, hold on!"

* * *

The shobo scrabbled out of the wagon in pursuit, leaving a surprised silence in her wake.

"What do you 'spose that was about?" asked Eimear. Looking down at her game of Swarm, she saw one of her locust tiles had been jostled by the shobo's stumble. She carefully nudged it back into position.

"Maybe the shobo wants to eat her ferret," answered Fergus. He then picked up a scarab tile and placed it atop Eimear's own, pinning her scarab in place.

Uh oh. She hadn't thought of that move. Before now, she'd thought she was doing pretty well, but now that she reexamined the game, her rat king was only two moves away from being encircled.

"Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?" drawled Dana in a lascivious tone.

The others in the wagon alternately chuckled or groaned. Eimear, seeing a way out, snatched up a handful of tiles off the limestone block they were playing on and chucked them in Dana's direction with a cry of, "With a shobo? Gross!"

"Wha— Hey!" cried Fergus.

Eimear feigned a look of surprise as she glanced down at the ruined game. "Oh, oops! Sorry, Fergus." She bobbed to one side to dodge the scarab Dana had lobbed back at her. "I guess we'll have to start over."

* * *

Several of the wagons had room only for the driver in the front. But there was precious little uniformity in Shona's caravan. Each vehicle had come into their service as much by chance as by design, and so Vex and Betha had settled into a bench set behind the driver of the fifth wagon.

Vex, Betha, _and Cucullo,_ more accurately.

"Accipere," said Betha, left hand held aloft, palm out. Cucullo scurried up the halfling's clothes, then moved sure-footed across her arm, Betha giggling all the way. The ferret took the morsel from her palm into its jaws, then made a return trip across a tanned arm, weaved around an earring, and disappeared into the hood hanging off the back of Betha's cloak.

The sounds of contented ferret snacking followed.

"He treats it like his little nest," explained Betha chipperly. She wore her brown hair in a thick braid and she absently ran a hand along it to make sure it hadn't collected in the hood as well. "A cucullo for Cucullo," and she giggled once more.

"'Accipere'? That means 'fetch'?" asked Vex. While she would admit the ferret's antics were kind of amusing, there was Vox to be learned, and knowledge trumped cuteness all six days of the week.

"More like 'take,'" explained Betha. "He puts whatever I'm holding in his nest if he doesn’t eat it first." A white ferret face peeked over the lip of the hood. Betha reached back and stroked the fur atop his head without needing to glance back first.

For a heartbeat, Vex wondered what it'd be like to have someone stroke the fur on her head before she forcefully banished the thought. Instead, the shobo asked, "What are some other Vox words that you know?"

She wasn't taking notes because she had a good ear for language —and parchment was too valuable to use for mere vocabulary— but she had some writing supplies nearby in case something important did come out.

"Lots!" exclaimed Betha. "'Draco'; 'serpens'; 'squama'—" The brunette had started gesticulating, her voice growing louder and more dramatic as the movements grew broader. "—'ignis'; 'incendium'; 'magicae'—" Several sweeping gestures would have bopped Cucullo in the muzzle except that he always ducked below the lip of the hood in time, his head popping back up a heartbeat later. _"—'mortis'; 'pestilentia'; 'LARDO ET OVA, PRO PRANDIU-U-U-UM!'"_ she finished with a bellow and a flourish, the long braid of hair flying over one shoulder in the process.

The driver, a sour-faced halfing named Séamus, swiveled around and shot the pair a baleful look before spitting over the side. His gaze returning to the road ahead, he muttered something under his breath before retrieving a flask from his vest and taking a long pull.

Several long heartbeats passed before Vex's eyebrows managed to drop back to normal levels. _Shit, she even sounds like a kobold sorcerer,_ she thought, impressed despite herself. What she said aloud was, "What's that last one mean?"

Betha's cheeks were a little flushed from her performance. "Oh, that means 'bacon and eggs for breakfast.' Ignatius Magnus liked a big meal in the morning. You'd think he'd want the bacon burnt black or something since he was all 'Ignis, ardor, et flagro!' but he actually liked them runny." She flipped the braid off her shoulder, her earring flapping with the motion.

Vex stared at Betha, several emotions vying for room on her face. Tongue running across her half-broken teeth, the shobo eventually said, "You cooked breakfast for kobolds?"

"No, just Ignatius, and it was Da who usually did the cooking," answered Betha, idly passing another morsel up for Cucullo to snag before vanishing back into the hood-nest. "But I brought him his food and took his meal orders since I was the only one in the house who understood enough Vox to get the orders right, and I'd remove the shutters in his room in the morning and put them back in the evening or when it looked like rain, and one time I helped him rotate his bed frame so the burn marks weren't as visible, and—"

Vex tried to interrupt but Betha, showing both conversational cluelessness and impressive lung capacity, barreled on.

"—I carried his bag of sorcery tools, and kept his talismans dusted, and got to chase off miasma while he purged houses of sickness." A beat. "Oh, and laundry," she finished.

Interjection thoroughly withdrawn, Vex reached for her writing supplies as she asked, "How'd you do that?"

"Usually with a washing paddle and a basin since—"

"Not the fucking laundry!" snapped Vex. "The stuff about miasma."

"Ignatius had me swing a thurible full of burning incense around." Leaning in like she was sharing something important, Betha said, "That was way easier than the laundry. Smelled better too."

Setting her writing implements back down, Vex reached up and rubbed the sides of her head. She took a deep breath and then, eyes still closed, asked, "Let's back up. Why were you hosting a kobold in the first place?"

"My Ma and Da have the biggest house in all of Shirugi-Brexford," she declared with pride. "It's all stone and _two_ stories tall."

Considering the umbral city of Al Dajma'ar extended up as much as out, Vex didn't quite manage to match Betha's enthusiasm.

"Well, the biggest in the Brexford side, I mean," the halfling hedged. "The daimyo and magistrate have bigger places on the hob half of town."

Cucullo, meanwhile, had emerged from the hood and scaled Betha's braid, the animal using the halfling's head as his new perch. A pink snoot scented curiously in Vex's direction.

Ignoring her new headwear, Betha continued. "The daimyo had sent for a sorcerer since his family was sick with bilious fever, and Ignatius chose to board at our place instead of with the hobs. He told me once it was because he liked the daimyo having to come across town to ask for his services. That and the bacon. Anyway, he stuck around town for most of a year, doing healing sorcery and the like for steaders that paid in gold. Gemstones too; he liked those a lot. Him staying pissed the town priests off, but what were they going to do, complain to the daimyo?"

"Why didn't the daimyo use the priests in the first place?" asked Vex.

"Hobs don't seem to like priests much." Betha shrugged. "They call it 'slave magic.' The prayers are way less exciting than the stuff Ignatius did, anyway. No flashes or explosions, not even a single howling spirit. People would come out just to watch Ignatius work, which is more than you could say for the priests."

Kobolds were the most common sorcerers in Creation, above or below ground. Nearly every grimoire Vex had been allowed to study had at least some space dedicated to kobold eldritch practices. The problem was that the little blue fuckers interwove as much spectacle as sorcery into their workings and it was near-impossible to separate the two.

"How did Ignatius cure bilious fever?" Vex's fingers hovered over her writing implements but she waited. _Fifty-fifty odds he just fed them poppy milk and strobed some faerie fire._

Petting her 'hat', Betha said, "He passed the entire family's diseases into a single slave and then burned her to ash."

The quill was in Vex's hand in an instant. _An ouroboros shunt? Used for illnesses? I've only heard of it working for bleeding wounds. Was the immolation necessary or just kobold dramatics? Was the recipient chosen randomly or was there something about her that helped the transferal?_

"Fascinating," murmured Vex, smoothing out the parchment and reaching for her inkwell and blotter. "Tell me everything you can remember —phrases, gestures, ritual implements— and don't skimp on the Vox. Even if you don't know what it meant, just tell me what it sounded like; I’ll write it down phonetically and figure it out later."

The shobo's expression was hungry enough it made the ferret retreat back to his hood.

* * *

Vex sat between two squirming halflings as the three of them watched the road ahead. Deaglán's elbow was digging into Vex's side despite the sling he was wearing, and Betha was bouncing in her seat, too energetic to sit still.

Honestly, the only one that wasn't annoying her was Cucullo. The brown-and-white ferret had curled up in a wide pocket of Vex’s tool belt and was dozing while Vex idly stroked his fur.

 _If only I could practice my Vox with you instead,_ she thought.

"Ooh, I hope there's some cute spiral girls in Dahir!" piped Betha, adding an exclamation in Vox that roughly translated as 'fires of anticipation.'

Cucullo, meanwhile, emerged from the pouch and splayed out on his back so Vex could rub his stomach. There was a spot about two-thirds of the way down which Vex had originally mistaken for a belly button until a giggling Betha had explained what it was instead.

 _Of course, you'd probably be just as sex-crazed as the rest of them,_ she thought dourly. "Fucking mammals," she muttered, the remark ignored by the halflings to either side.

Deaglán leaned forward so he could send a look of curiosity in Betha's direction. "Hold up, you're a spiralist?"

Betha responded by rolling up the sleeve on her left arm to show a small, wave-like spiral tattoo on her bicep.

"How did I not know this?" said Deaglán, wonder and a little self-reproach mingling in his voice. Then he blinked and added, "How did Eithne not tell me? Repeatedly?"

Betha lowered her head as if suddenly shy. "Oh, no, I'm not a spiralist like Eithne." A nervous giggle. "She's hardcore."

"There's different gradations of spiralists?" asked Vex, rubbing little circles into the fur of the blissed-out polecat in her lap. Studying the tattoo for a moment, she said, "Are you only an initiate?" If so, it'd explain why Eithne's tattoos were so extensive in comparison.

"No, it's just that the spiral gets used for different things," demurred Betha. "People like Eithne want a new Tír Tairngire, a place where halflings are in charge and have armies and stuff." She sounded rather indifferent to the notion of a halfling-led state. "Then you'll see the spiral on pretty much every wanderer boat out there. It's tradition."

"I heard it was for good luck," added Deaglán, reaching carefully through the fabric of his sling to scratch his arm. "That if you didn't have the spiral on your ship, you wouldn't be able to find your way back to shore."

"Oh, yeah, I heard that too!" answered Betha. Then to Vex, she said, "Some sailors get it tattooed on them, I guess so they don't drown if they get washed overboard." She shrugged.

"And you?" pressed Vex. One of the broken teeth in her mouth came loose at that moment and Vex swallowed it without a second thought. A brief feeling of contentment welled up within the shobo, putting a grin on her face without her realizing it.

"It's about women having power," and Betha drew herself up taller as she spoke. "A lot of steads only have guy mayors or guy sheriffs or guy tax collectors. But they weren't the guy Spiral Queens, after all!"

"You mean kings?" Vex offered in a dry tone.

"Yeah, that! There weren't any Spiral Kings in Tír Tairngire, so why should the men have all the say?" A coarse knot in the wood of their seat was snagging Betha's braid and she paused to get it free. "A lot of the women in Shirugi-Brexford have the spiral." A beat. "Well, in the Brexford side, I mean. Anyway, Eithne is all—'" and her voice dropped into a gravely register as she said, "—'Grr, I've got more spirals on one tit than you’ll see across an entire wharf! Halflings rule! Let's angrily argue politics while we fuck!'" 

Deaglán and Vex both laughed at the impression. Eithne’s voice sounded nothing like that, but the intensity was the same.

Betha grinned widely, pleased at the response. Then, in a friendly, higher-pitched tone, she said, "While I'm like, 'Hi. Girls are great, let's snog.'" She shook her head, grin fading a little. "But Eithne's so pretty, with that dark hair and pale skin, that I think a lot of the 'girls are great' girls are willing to pretend to be the other kind of spiral if it'll get her attention."

Deaglán twisted around so he could reach across with his uninjured arm and pat a crestfallen Betha on the knee. "You're pretty too; you'll find someone in town." Withdrawing his hand, he said, "And if you want, I can ask my Aoife and Cormac if they know any steaders who're your type."

"Ah, thanks Deaglán," and Betha's face was a picture of gratitude. "Wait, I thought Aoife and Cormac were in Cloghershed."

The kink-nosed halfling shook his head. "No, you’re thinking of Abban and Crónán." He looked a little wistful for a moment. "We haven't been to Cloghershed in ages. I hope they're doing okay."

Eager to talk about _anything else,_ Vex piped in with, "What's there to see in Dahir?"

"Well, there's the temple to Vanu; that's where Bonnie and I are going straight off to get healed," answered Deaglán. "There's the cloth market, of course, and, uh..."

"The canals are pretty when the mosquitoes aren't too bad," said Betha. She paused. "Wait, don't shobos eat bugs?"

Vex rolled her eyes and only refrained from making a rude gesture because she had a handful of ferret to contend with, Cucullo nipping playfully at her fingers. "Mosquitoes aren't worth the hassle. It'd be like eating a biscuit one crumb at a time, all while the crumbs are trying to eat you back."

"That sounds kind of fun, actually," said Betha, smiling.

Expressive brows flattening, Vex scratched her side where the tool belt was bunching up against her fur. "Speaking as the insectivore in the group, I can assure you that swarms are a pain in the ass. You wanna eat bugs? Stick to larger individuals: beetles, caterpillars, or anything soft-bodied like worms, slugs, or snails."

The brunette pondered such advice, expression growing pensive. This was noteworthy since Betha was rarely stationary or quiet for long, as Vex had seen over the last couple days spent plying her for Vox lessons and sorcerous observations.

Sensing the shift, Cucullo perked up from Vex's lap, the elongated animal springing from shobo to halfling. He scaled Betha's braid only to drape himself across the back of her neck, the girl idly stroking his fur as she stared into the middle distance.

Vex and Deaglán shared a look, the latter shrugging before saying, "If you like snails, Dahir's the place for you. That fancy, purple dye they're famous for? Made from snails! You can find them crawling everywhere if you take a raft out to the flooded quarter. Something about the submerged buildings makes the area snail paradise. But stay away from the old granary; the upper floors are above the water and the local dye-makers use it to, well, make the dye. It stinks like you wouldn't believe," and he wrinkled his crooked nose up at the memory. "Cormac told me once that the mayor made them move out there so they wouldn't gag the rest of the town."

"Are they able to make ink out of the stuff too?" asked the shobo. Baros had been well-stocked when Vex had swiped his stuff, but that had been a fluke. She couldn't count on a steady stream of larcenous, bard-based resupplies if she wanted to continue her research.

"I'm not sure. But I can ask my Aoife when I see her; she'd know," Deaglán said.

Vex's hand went to one of her pouches and she withdrew the waterskin she'd made the day before, opening the two simple valves at its neck and tipping some of the contents into her mouth. The neck was made of wood Vex had carved and, when the valves were closed, the chamber held precisely one dram of fluid. It was for this reason that Vex knew her water skin held _exactly_ sixty-four drams —one cup— and that she'd poured two ounces of water into a bowl for Cucullo that morning.

Vex felt naked without having measuring tools on-hand.

"Let me know," said Vex, sealing her waterskin and putting it back on her belt before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "And come get me before you and Bonnie go get healing at the temple."

Deaglán's expression softened as he pulled at the cloth of his sling, the material starting to slip down his shoulder. "It's sweet that you want to make sure Bonnie's okay."

 _Dahir is outside the Khanate so the odds of them letting shobos walk the streets are pretty fucking small. If I'm not standing in a halfling's shadow, they'll probably try to stone me. Hells, they might try to anyway, but at least with others there I'll have some fucking cover. And the only way they'd let me in their temple unescorted is if they were looking for a living sacrifice,_ thought Vex bitterly.

But what she said out loud was, "Yeah. Bonnie. Gotta make sure she recovers."

Deaglán looked about to say something to that when their conversation was bulled through with all the grace of a frost giant fleeing a lava flow.

"You could make a mosquito snack bag!" exclaimed Betha, startling Vex and Deaglán both, though Cucullo seemed unphased. "You know how they make those nets out of cloth to keep the bugs out? You could throw one over a swarm of mosquitoes and trap them! Then you use a bit of twine and tie the net closed and have a snack bag that you can just put up to your mouth and untie it and the mosquitoes don't have anywhere else to escape so you can eat the whole mess of them! Gulp, and then you've chomped the whole bug-biscuit instead of just one crumb at a time!"

As Betha stared exultantly at Vex and Deaglán, awaiting praise for her genius, someone from the lead wagon rang a bell. Town spotted. They were entering the outskirts of Dahir now.

Her invention completely forgotten, Betha sprung to her feet, standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck to see ahead. Cucullo was still riding atop her head. Deaglán wasn’t quite so dramatic, but he still hooked his feet into the underside of the driver’s seat in front of them so he could lean far out the opposite side of the wagon to get his own view. Vex briefly considered shoving one of them just to watch them topple when she caught a scent and her eyes went wide.

There were places in the Umbra where salt water existed: unlit caverns containing brackish lakes where strange things swam in the Stygian depths. Vex had visited one once when she'd been young, probably only a few years after she'd outgrown her rat-like ko-bakemono form and awakened as the surly, sapient shobo she was now.

Which was why Vex was rocked by a wave of nostalgia when the brine-scented air of Dahir reached her.

Betha and Deaglán gabbled excitedly but Vex's attention was fixed on their surroundings. The road rose up until the caravan was traveling atop a levee, a swamp stretching out to the west.

Trees pierced the water, dead or dying things, as did the skeletons of a few, crumbling buildings. Several generations back, a flood had caused the Salann river to leap its banks, cutting a new course through a corner of Dahir. Roughly a quarter of the stead was submerged, replacing a chunk of arable land with brackish swamp. A swamp teeming with... snails.

Posts had been driven into the eastern side of the embankment, each about twenty feet apart and decorated with a profusion of shells. One had a sign nailed to it —'Welcome to Dahir!'— the edge of the sign lined with shells in an eye-catching pattern of red, red, purple, purple. A berm of cement and crushed limestone was visible beyond, no doubt there to strengthen the levee holding back the swamp's spread.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Betha, leaning on Vex’s head for support while she pointed.

After batting away the elbow digging into her scalp, Vex followed Betha’s pointing finger and saw the top of a structure piercing the treeline ahead. It was a spire that glistened red and purple in the sunlight. For a moment Vex thought the steeple was coated with colored glass, which would have been hellishly expensive, but a few heartbeats later she recognized the shades of color as being identical to the ones she'd seen lining the sign.

Rounding a bend in the levee, the town came into view and Vex saw the temple of Vanu dominating the landscape, its roof designed to make the whole edifice look like the conical shell of a colossal snail. There had to be thousands of shells decorating the roof to achieve the spirals of red and purple Vex had first seen.

 _It's subtle, but I'm picking up on a theme,_ thought Vex dryly.

A shout of excitement came from somewhere in the town and then a stream of steaders poured out from Dahir to welcome the caravan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Latin for the kobold/draconic language when it's overheard by someone who doesn't understand it. I should add the caveat that I'm having to rely on translation software for the phrasing, with all the shortcomings that implies. If there's anyone reading this who notices an improper translation or word usage and can offer something more accurate, lemme know in the comments or the Discord.
> 
> Also, a purple dye made from snails [was a real thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tyrian_purple#Production_from_sea_snails). And regarding the unpleasant odor, I was deeply amused to read the following from the same article:
>
>> So pervasive was this stench that the Talmud specifically granted women the right to divorce any husband who became a dyer after marriage.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	13. The Godly and the Oddly

> _The elves claim that, just as a forest changes colors from season to season, so too do the names of gods from place to place. The orcs say that a bull is a bull no matter what grass it grazes and a god is a god no matter who worships it. The halflings describe all divinities as part of a vast and unruly family that can trace their lineage to a single matron of creation._
> 
> _And maybe they’re right, maybe the entity being prayed to matters less than the act of prayer itself. But if you want to see blood on the floor, you get a bunch of different priests together and tell them to work it out. It’s better than a seat at the fighting pits!_

\- Yasmine Touati the Oft-Fined, merchant of Deccar

* * *

Apparently there were enough spiral girls in Dahir to occupy both Eithne and Betha, because it was just Shona, Deaglán, Bonnie, and Vex who entered the temple of Vanu.

A halfling in a tunic dyed with a strip of purple moved to bar Vex from entering but Bonnie snarled at the man before Shona stepped in close and said a few hushed words. Looking a little chagrined, the custodian stepped aside, though Vex could feel the weight of his eyes on her back as she entered.

The vestibule was broad, with a sloping ceiling and a few, narrow windows. Shrines both large and small lined the interior but one dominated all others, halflings and shobo stopping to take in the sight of it.

Across an entire wall was a mural depicting a sea monster that was strange even by Vex's learned standards. It had a face like a catfish, with great elephant-like tusks emerging from the corners of its mouth. Its body was pink and featureless save for a comically tiny pair of fins, and if the tiny boats near its bulk were any indication, the whole creature had to be an island unto itself. Atop its back was a mountain-sized, red-and-purple snail shell renovated into a palace, complete with gardens and battlements.

"Huh," breathed Vex, drinking in the sight. The artistry was decent, even impressive, it was just the subject that seemed... implausible. Dragons and dinosaurs could be downright huge, and she'd read descriptions of things larger still that swam the seas. However, she felt confident that if landmass-sized, tusked fish-snails were a thing, the _Kitāb al-Wahūsh_ would know of it before a random group of halflings. And Vex had read that book cover-to-cover twice.

Then the doors out of the vestibule opened and a priest of Vanu stepped through, beckoning them into the nave. She was plump in a way few halflings were, her brown hair cropped short, and her smile was broad but didn't look entirely authentic. She wore a robe of pure purple and a bejeweled, blue skullcap adorned her head.

"I heard there were wanderers seeking the succor of Vanu." Her voice was higher pitched than Vex would have expected. "Please, follow me."

The nave was long, supported by pillars of stone that were alternately red or purple. The ceiling was painted sky blue and bronze planters hung down, light blue flowers growing within. One side of the nave was lined with cots for the ailing.

More interestingly was the other side, which showed maps of the area: the stead, the surrounding farmland, and most especially the levees hugging the bank of the Salann river. One table bore a miniature version of a levee, complete with a cement berm supporting it, and there were sacks of related materials stacked nearby. A great square of slate had been mounted to the wall and two priests —their robes only half purple and their skullcaps lacking jewels— stood before it, one writing numbers and symbols with a block of chalk while the other studied the design carefully.

Dominating the back wall was a mural of a human woman in blue robes, sitting atop the fish-snail from earlier, a nimbus of light surrounding her head. In one hand she held an oar, and the other hand was outthrust, directing a great wave to wash forward.

The high priestess gestured at the mural, her smile looking a little more genuine in that moment. "That is Vanu, goddess of rivers and floods, she who affords safe harbor or metes out devastation in her sublime majesty."

"And the snail?" asked Bonnie. She started to motion with her right arm but it was bandaged tightly against her body. With a huff, she pointed with her left hand instead.

The priestess bludgeoned the halfling with a grin. "Why, that's Vakara, a monstrous child of Nammu who pledged service to Vanu. It brings her across the waters faster than any ship and its shell houses her palace. Many generations ago, Vanu's wrath was visited upon Dahir for she was unknown and unheeded in this area. But then a human priest from a distant land arrived and brought with him knowledge of Vanu and how to worship her. A temple was built and it was then that the flood receded, praise unto Vanu. This act further pleased Vakara and so it blessed us with an unending bounty of snails. We have grown to prosper once more and all of the floods to follow have been weathered safely, a sign of Vanu's mercy."

"Well, the levees probably _helped,"_ Vex drawled, jabbing a furry thumb back towards the priests busy planning some act of civil engineering.

The priestess' expression soured slightly. "We build them in Vanu's name."

"Yeah, that and not fucking dr-" but the rest of Vex's statement was cut off when she was elbowed in the ribs by Shona.

"Our caravan was beset by a troll," interjected the auburn halfling, stepping between Vex and the high priestess. "Bonnie and Deaglán were injured in the attack—"

"I didn't let it off easy," grumbled Bonnie. "Batugei too," she added.

"—And we were hoping you might be able to intercede with Vanu on their behalf, to speed their recovery and ease their suffering," finished Shona, who Vex had to admit was a practiced hand at sucking up to the clergy.

"Vanu's mercy is without limit and she always answers the call of her faithful servants," answered the priestess easily, as though reciting a familiar phrase. Then her expression grew...shrewder. "However, the workings of curative miracles require costly reagents and focal objects. It is traditional that a donation is made to help sustain our stores of such things." A beat. "So that others can be aided in turn."

She smiled unctuously.

"Of course," Shona answered sweetly. "It's clear that your order builds levees and dykes as a matter of religious duty. And I happen to have five wagons laden with limestone. I was going to sell them through the town market, but perhaps I could sell them to your organization directly, where it'd do the most good."

"She's a bitch alright," said Bonnie in a whisper to Deaglán, Vex standing close enough to overhear. "But it's kind of fun watching her point that bitchitude at someone outside the caravan."

Shona and the high priestess stepped away for a few minutes to dicker over the cost of miracles.

Vex used the time to look around, a corner of her mind seeing if there was any writing materials or useful tools she could swipe. Not that she seriously intended to do that here of all places, but if there happened to be an inkwell that had rolled into a shadowy corner... That Bonnie had a similar cast to her features was something Vex filed away for future use. An accomplice could be helpful someday, especially one that could melee a troll without getting ripped apart.

It was in her perusings that Vex noticed a ladder disappearing up into the heights of the steeple. It was tucked into a nondescript corner near where the levee work was being planned, the ladder hard to spot amidst the visual clutter. But it was the sack leaning against the ladder that caught her curiosity. Unlike the bags of aggregate or cement, this one had an icon of a triangle surrounded by three other triangles sewn into it.

Vex walked over to a halfling wearing the same tunic-with-a-line-of-purple as the one from outside. He was using a long hook to lower the bronze planters, a bucket of water waiting nearby.

"Hey, is there a carrow roost up top?" she asked.

The halfling scowled at Vex and then went back to his work.

"Come on, fucker. I know you heard me," she insisted. 

He very pointedly didn’t look her way as he went about his work.

Jogging over to the injured pair of halflings, Vex grabbed Deaglán by his good arm and pulled him away from Bonnie. "Come on. I need you to talk Halfling at this asshole for me. Ask him if there's a carrow roost in here."

"But you speak Caint just fine." Deaglán looked confused. "You're speaking it right now."

"It's not what I'm saying, it's that I'm the one saying it." She shoved him forward. "Go."

Looking a little embarrassed, Deaglán stumbled forward toward the temple custodian. Vex watched as a self-effacing smile spread across Deaglán's face, the halfling gesturing towards Vex and giving a what-can-you-do shrug. After a minute of conversation, including an amusing anecdote and a remark about some local politics that Deaglán somehow knew about, the kink-nosed halfling clapped the custodian on the shoulder and hoped he had a good day.

He walked back over to Vex. "Mánús says they do get carrows that stop by here. There's a sheltered platform up near the roof where they drop off parcels or sleep sometimes. They even have a couple of sacks of carrow-corn for them to eat," and he gestured toward the bag with the triangle symbol Vex had spotted earlier.

"Is one here now?" asked Vex.

Deaglán gave a thoughtful frown. "I didn't ask, exactly, but I think he would have said if one was."

"Hey, Deag!" called Bonnie, her voice loud in the relative quiet of the temple. "Come on!"

She was flanked by Shona and the high priestess, who had apparently reached an agreement.

Across the nave, a young, red-headed halfling in plain robes a size too large for him was hustling toward the high priestess. He had a heavy sack bouncing against his back and he was (poorly) balancing a copper platter laden with ritual implements.

"Yes, each of you please lie down in one of our cots," said the priestess. "That way my assistant and I can examine your injuries."

"The town's carrow roost is here in the temple," whispered Vex to Shona. She discreetly gestured toward the ladder along the opposite wall.

"Good to know," Shona murmured back.

"I want to come," said Vex.

"What?" Shona turned from watching Bonnie and Deaglán being tutted over by the priestess and her ginger assistant to face Vex.

"When you go to get the writ of passage from the carrow," hissed the shobo. "I want to be there. I've never seen a carrow up close." A beat. "Not a live one," she amended.

Shona gave a noncommittal hum in response. Vex let the matter drop since interesting things were happening by the cots.

"I'm pleased to say that yours is an injury that can be swiftly mended." The priestess was looking at Deaglán but her voice was pitched to carry for Shona's benefit; the caravan master was the one footing the bill, after all. "I should be able to work the appropriate miracle soon, though Lugh will cleanse you first," and she nodded toward her assistant. "That's a matter of propriety as much as magic; one does not come before a goddess unkempt," and the heavy-set halfling tittered at the notion.

Deaglán gave an appreciative smile to the priestess. "That's good to hear, your Worship. I'm glad I'll be able to visit with my Aoife and Cormac before we're back on the road again."

The priestess gave a single nod in response, then turned to Bonnie, her expression growing more focused. "You, my dear, will need longer care. At least a week. And you should know there will be scarring."

"Why?" asked Bonnie, her bound arm struggling against its bindings for a moment before she raised her other hand up and ran it through her blonde hair. "For the wait, I mean. I can live with scars if I have to, but a week in one place will have me clawing at the walls."

Meanwhile, the assistant had pulled Deaglán's shoes off and was using a damp rag to wipe his hands and feet clean.

"There's muscle and tendon damage that needs mending," explained the priestess. "If you were to heal from that naturally, it'd require as long as a year for you to have the same strength and range of movement as you had before you were hurt. A shorter treatment can't encompass a year of careful healing; if you received the same miracle as Deaglán then the musculature of your right arm would be atrophied."

Bonnie recoiled at the thought. "I'll wait! For that, I can stay put for a week." She looked around the temple interior. "Can I have visitors? Is this one of those temples that have prostitutes?" When she saw the priestess' sour expression, she added hastily, "I'll make sure not to strain my arm in the tumble."

Swallowing a sigh, the priestess said, "No, Vanu's liturgy does not include sacred prostitution. And even if it did, you would be in no state to engage in such activity while recovering. Given the toll a year of healing demands of your body, you will be doing little other than sleeping and eating until you are well enough to leave."

That caught Vex's attention, the shobo interjecting with, "It's a sequence of healing spells, isn't it? Lots of little treatments with just enough time in between for the subject to replenish themselves. I'm guessing you give them high-caloric foodstuff too: curds, bread, thick stews, and the like."

The priestess cocked her head to the side, lips pursed. She then looked to Shona.

"She boarded one of my wagons in the Khanate," explained the caravan master, gesturing to Vex. "We're also here to pick up a writ of passage into Kusatsu. Hob business." She'd chosen her words carefully so that they were true while implying that Vex was some Khanate functionary instead of a stowaway.

Some cultures thought it invited divine retribution to lie within a temple and apparently Shona hailed from such a place. While Vex could appreciate a deftly woven half-truth, the idea that the gods punished lying was one that didn't long survive the company of winter elves.

The priestess gave Vex an appraising look, lips still pursed. "Yes," she said eventually. "The meals are deliberately hearty. Each convalescent is even given a dish of buttered snails, a sacred meal in honor to Vakara. It’s very restorative."

Bonnie pulled a face while the priestess' attention was on Vex, though she dropped into a mask of nonchalance when the assistant looked her way.

Vex tapped her chin in thought. "Is the frequency of treatment because of Bonnie's high metabolism and low reserves of body fat?" When the priestess didn't immediately answer, Vex said, "If you were healing the same injury on, say, a human, could you use fewer, more potent cures?"

"I've never treated a human with an equivalent injury," the priestess answered slowly, her brows furrowing.

_Oh, you hedging piece of shit. Just answer the damn question, you obfuscating god-botherer!_

What she said aloud was, "Fine, then imagine if you had the same injury. Would your extra fat reserves allow you t-oof!"

Once more Vex's sentence was interrupted by Shona's elbow to her side, but a lot more forcefully this time. Deaglán winced and Bonnie had to clap her hand over her mouth to hide her snort of laughter. The assistant's eyes bulged with shock.

While Vex rubbed her side and swore across four different languages, Shona said, "Forgive us, your Worship. We should leave you to your delicate work. I know Deaglán and Bonnie are in capable hands."

Vex tried to say something else and had to jump back to keep from being jabbed a third time.

"One of your people can find me in town when you're ready to have the limestone delivered," continued Shona. "And please let me know when that writ of passage arrives."

The priestess straightened her robes where they had bunched up across her gut, drawing herself up to a prouder height. To Shona she said, "Vanu's grace be with you." To Vex, she offered only a gimlet-eyed stare.

"And to you as well," replied Shona. And with that, she grabbed Vex by the scruff of the neck and marched the shobo out of the temple.

* * *

Bilateral symmetry was so common in beasts and people that it was a detail few consciously registered. Even abominations like trolls tended to have their left side mirror their right, to have a meaningful distinction between front and back.

Carrows were a stark exception.

Front and back meant nothing to them because, unlike almost every single other creature in Creation, carrows had _trilateral symmetry_.

"✋ ☟✌✞☜ ✌ 🏱☼✋☠❄⚐🕆❄," croaked the carrow, its tripartite face swiveling around to face Vex and Shona in the drafty roost.

Three bird-like feet were spaced evenly around a trunk-shaped body that was a little taller than Shona even given the thick soles of her buskins. At the top of that black-feathered body, above each foot, were three shoulders. From each shoulder, a long wing emerged that ended in three clawed fingers. The carrow had no thumbs so when it needed an opposable grip, it brought two of its hands together, which it was doing now to retrieve a roll of parchment from a pouch that hung off the complicated leather harness it wore.

"☟☜☼☜ ✋💧 ✡⚐🕆☼ 🏱☼✋☠❄⚐🕆❄📪 ☝☼⚐🕆☠👎☹✋☠☝." It held the parchment out and Shona stepped forward to take it. Its head rotated this way and that, all the while trained on Shona. "✋ ☟✌✞☜ ☜✌☼☠☜👎 💣✡ ☝☼✌❄🕆✋❄✡," it croaked, then made a grasping motion with one trio of fingers.

Atop the trunk-shaped body was a long and sinuous neck like a swan's, the feathers gradually transitioning from black to dark, iridescent shades of blue and red along its length. Where the neck met the head there was a ruff of feathers in vibrant colors. If a bird’s beak had a top and bottom mandible, the carrow’s beak had three 'tops' that met side-to-side to form a pyramid-like shape, all three coming to a point. Near the base of each mandible was a dark eye and the carrow's flexible neck allowed it to point that beak at whatever it wanted.

If it was staring at you then it meant at least two of its eyes were trained on you at that moment. Two of its eyes were gazing at the polished piece of quartz Shona had retrieved and was offering in the palm of her outstretched hand. Two hands reached out to grasp the prize, holding it up to better catch the light filtering into the roost.

Its head swiveled this way and that, each eye taking in the shiny stone.

"👍☼✡💧❄✌☹☹✋☪☜👎 💧✋☹✋👍⚐☠. ✌ 🏱☼☜❄❄✡ ☠☜💧❄📫☹✋☠☜☼," it croaked out, its neck elongating and contracting to alter pitch, verbalizing a language that had, to the best of Vex's knowledge, remained opaque to the rest of Creation. Then, with deliberate slowness, its tripartite beak opening and closing with care, it rasped, "Tang-kuh Ooo."

The carrow had been paid in Kusatsu when it took the writ, but it was expected that the recipient offer a token of appreciation. A _shiny_ token of appreciation.

"Y-You're welcome," stammered Shona.

Maybe the head swivel it made back was a friendly acknowledgement. Maybe it was a rude gesture. Maybe it meant nothing; no one really knew. Whatever the case, the carrow pivoted its head around and walked with a curious bobbing gait over to one of the sacks of carrow-corn, not needing to turn its body since it had no facing to adjust.

It plunged its beak deep into the bag, then raised it up into the air so the kernels could travel down its throat.

Shona examined the writ while a bizarre gustatorial display happened in the background. "It's official," she said after a long moment.

Vex glanced at it. She had to skim the official writing in Shitagau since the literal words meant little; the true meaning was expressed in subtext and Vex knew too little about hob culture to decipher that. The Mimi Te included below, however, was more plainly written. It gave the bearer's caravan the right to cross east into the Khanate as far as Kusatsu. It also gave them the right to convey a group of lawfully-ransomed dwarven captives south outside the bounds of the Khanate.

"It certainly looks like it," agreed Vex. Without realizing it, her hands went to her tool belt so she could run her fingers across the tools within, making sure none had been dropped or stolen.

Shona raised a single eyebrow. "So, are you coming?"

"✡⚐🕆 💧☟⚐🕆☹👎 ☝⚐ 🕈✋❄☟ ❄☟☜💣📪 ☞🕆☼☼✡ ☝☼⚐🕆☠👎☹✋☠☝," croaked the carrow in the background. Both Shona and Vex turned its way but it hadn't pivoted its head around so for all they knew it was muttering to itself.

Carrows had no front or back. They had only top, bottom, and whatever side it happened to be looking at.

With a mental shrug, Vex turned back to Shona. Wariness of others had literally been etched into Vex's hide so despite the manifold benefits that came with the caravan, she was hesitant.

It was affirming in some ways being around other people, especially others smarter than an obo. _And Cucullo,_ Vex amended to herself, mentally eking out an exception for the cuddly brown-and-white ferret.

For several heartbeats Vex stood there, trapped between two diametrically opposed urges.

Unbidden, a memory rose within Vex. In her mind's eye, she saw Lek, the obo's large hands trying to hold in her own entrails as the samurai's sword opened her throat. Lek had been a shit conversationalist and not much brighter than the foliage she ate. But she hadn't deserved to die.

And she'd died because Vex had been driven to desperation, her intellect rotting away in that forest.

 _If this whole thing's going to end in tragedy or death, better it claim a bunch of halflings and an orc instead of a group of innocent bakemonos,_ Vex thought darkly.

"I'm in," she said, taking Shona's offered hand.

"Glad to have you," answered Shona, pumping Vex's hand twice before gesturing for the shobo to start climbing down the ladder out of the carrow roost. The halfling followed after once Vex had made it a little ways down. "Though I reserve the right to rethink that," she added.

Vex kept her eyes on the climb in front of her. "I don't see why."

"Well, and mind you, this is just for starters," drawled Shona as she descended one rung at a time. "You nearly got ran out of town the second you showed your face. Then you nearly got us all ran out of town when you called the high priestess of the most influential faith in Dahir fat."

They slowly climbed their way down, Vex taking care to keep her tool belt from snagging on the ladder as she went. "Yeah, but what have I done lately?" she challenged, her smirk audible.

"Oh, since you asked," said Shona in a lilting voice. "After I managed to fast-talk the clergy into letting you accompany me back into the temple —all so you could gawk at a carrow, for some damned reason— you go and swipe temple property."

If you listened carefully, you could hear a rattle from Vex's tool belt. That was from the two handfuls of carrow-corn she'd stuffed in there when she'd thought no one was watching, even making a point to cover the ill-gotten grains with other tools.

 _Carrow-corn makes a fantastic preservative! Nothing will grow on it; nothing but a carrow can eat it: not mold, not animals, not even me!_ she thought loudly.

What Vex said, though, was, "I have no idea what you're talking about." Even Séamus would have heard the false sincerity in her words.

She reached ground level, stepping back to give Shona room to descend.

Shona responded with a dry chuckle, shaking her head a little as she reached the bottom. "Just make sure you're worth the headache."

"Whatever you say, boss," answered the shobo.

A stubborn and thoroughly traumatized corner of Vex couldn't quite shake the fear that it was Vorkin'Set instead of Shona that she heard walking behind her. But despite all that, she found herself grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Arabic for depicting the elven language when it's not translated into the vernacular for the scene. The previous caveats about translation software apply, as does the invitation for assistance in the comments or the Discord.
> 
> The carrow language, creatively called 'Carrow' by non-carrows, is depicted using the Wingding font, which [you can see translated here](https://lingojam.com/W-D-Gaster). Not even a polyglot like Vex understands that language and I wanted something special to show its strange and utterly foreign nature.
> 
> Speaking of strange and utterly foreign, the carrow are a real oddball of a race. Avian/winged races are a genre staple but here I wanted something stranger than normal. So less this...  
> 
> 
> ...and more this...  
> 
> 
> ...by way of this or this...  
>   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	14. Interlude - All Agog

> _Sow only ash._
> 
> _Craft only weapons._

\- The Credo of Magog

* * *

Breandan sucked in a deep breath of cool mountain air and smiled. It smelled of great things, of opportunity, of _profit._

Okay, it actually smelled of body odor since he was downwind of the porters; a week's hike across mountain trails had left them pretty ripe. But in principle, those other aromas were there too.

Hopping to the side of the winding mountain path, the dirty blonde halfling let the six humans in his employ amble past, each of them laden with a pack bulging with trade goods. They were tall like orcs and dark-skinned, as all humans were. The gods hadn’t blessed humanity with great might, exceptional grace, or lifespans that spanned centuries, but the race did possess an endurance that no orc, halfling, or hob could match.

This lot had come cheaper than most, though no bargain was without its hidden price. These six had been merchant sailors from some distant land Breandan had never heard of —not that human politics much interested him— and became stranded when their ships floundered and sank in a violent storm. They spoke barely a dozen words of Caint between them, and their clothing was of an unfamiliar design. However, they were desperate and so willing to work both cheaply and without complaint… Or if they did complain, he couldn’t understand it, which served just as well.

As they passed, Breandan studied each one's pack with an appraising eye, checking to make sure no goods had spilled out or been damaged. Everything looked to be in order, prompting a grin to settle across his face like a cat stretching after a nap.

"Only you could be this fucking satisfied hiking across a godsdamned mountain," grumbled Ealga, following the porters by several yards, her ‘walking stick’ a spear nearly half-again as tall as she was. The wanderer had brown hair that had been sun-bleached fair and kept short with a knife, probably one of the several on the bandoleer that crossed her wool aketon. She had angry brown eyes and one of her ears was notched and missing the lobe. If there was a story behind the injury, Breandan had never coaxed it out of her.

Breandan met her dour exclamation head-on with a smile to match. Cheek dimples deepened enough to equal the dimple on his chin. It was a bold chin for a bold halfling, or so he liked to think.

"Ever since the Great Black Dragon settled in Kings' Pass, there's been no dwarf-trade from the south, right?" he said, hopping down and walking beside her.

Ealga lowered her head, shaking and muttering imprecations. Louder, she said, "I've heard your spiel, Breandan. Heard it so often it haunts my sleep."

Breandan continued, undeterred, "More than a century of wealth piling up with no merchants to trade for it. After all, the only pass through the mountains is Kings' Pass, and it's crawling with the undead. Right?"

"If I say 'yes', will you stop?" pleaded Ealga, picking her way carefully through the sloping trail.

"Wrong!" exclaimed Breandan. "It's the only pass that wagons can travel through. But what if you had a caravan...ON FOOT? No zombies, no black-clad kobolds—"

"No respite from your crowing," said the long-suffering Ealga.

"—No competition. Just a khan's-ransom in gemstones," finished the dirty blonde, his steps light and energetic. "It's the sort of brilliance that makes a fortune, Ealga. No more gemstones come out of Rust Mountain, just iron, so the southern Khanate is starved for them."

"It's a wonder you can talk at all given how often you fellate your own ego," grumped the guard.

"What was that?" Breandan asked.

"Oh, nothing," answered Ealga, "except that if this is the wrong trail through, or if there's been an early snow or an avalanche, then this will have been nothing except the single most annoying nature hike in Creation." The butt of her spear rapped against the stone path.

Breandan laughed, a two-note bark that echoed off the surrounding stone.

Several of the porters twisted sideways to glance at him before continuing forward.

"No worries there, Ealga. Luck is on my side," he boasted.

The dirty blonde halfling reached down to finger the five-sided amulet of white jade he wore around his neck. Kobold-made, it was enchanted to bestow luck and mental clarity upon the wearer, and it worked well enough that after donning it, he realized he'd overpaid the sorcerer by at least a third. He'd since won more often than not at dice, and had a penchant for finding coins half-covered in the road, but this was his first time really putting his luck to the test.

The porters had stopped, blocking the way while their tall packs blocked the view. "Düz arazi yakın!" came the cry from the front of the line.

Breandan didn't understand the porters' tongue, so he looked to Ealga for translation. He knew instantly from her clenched teeth that it was good news.

"What did they say?" he purred.

Ealga muttered something.

"What was that?" he pressed.

"'Flat land ahead,'" she ground out.

Breandan hadn't hired his guard on the basis of personality —Ealga was a terror with that spear of hers— but her unrelenting pessimism was worth every copper for the look of begrudging, almost painful respect she afforded him just then.

He sucked in a lungful of cool air and breathed it out, smiling.

* * *

The trail had seen them clear through the mountains, but it hadn't deposited them directly at the clan's holdings. Instead, the group of eight had marched east for three days across the foothills at the base of the mountains, empty grassland visible to the south beyond.

When they did reach the dwarves, the Barrier Mountains Clan received them with enthusiasm, though for some reason they kept calling themselves The Conglomerate and chuckling as if they'd told some fantastic quip. Breandan laughed along with them, though he didn't actually get it.

Probably a rock joke of some kind, given the tellers.

The negotiations ran for most of a day, held in a small, open-air courtyard carved into a sheltered stretch of the mountain's face. Ealga shadowed him, with sour looks enough for all, while his porters rested their broad feet, splayed out around a squat, burbling fountain.

And so it was the following morning that they began their return trip. Breandan’s porters replaced their oversized packs with litters, each one supporting a modest-sized chest. It was two porters to the litter because the chests were heavy from the gems and precious metals locked within.

At dusk of the first day, they saw the dogs. There were two of them, silhouettes watching from the distance, and sometimes there would be a glint of metal off them, the failing sunlight reflecting off... something. A harness, perhaps?

Before wanderlust had drawn him ever onward, Breandan had lived in Sundran. One of the farmers in the stead, tired of waking to find swathes of his crops gobbled in the night by raiding obos, had commissioned barding for his hounds from the town smith. They were huge beasts, some variety of mastiffs bred by a distant orc tribe, and they looked alternately imposing and ridiculous wrapped in chainmail.

Breandan had left town before more obos had raided the fields, so he never did learn if the steader's investment had paid off. However, he had to wonder if someone else had had a similar idea as he stared out at the figures in the distance.

"I don't like it," snapped Ealga, her face partially obscured in shadow as she glared south, her long spear held tightly in her hands.

"Do you like anything?" Breandan replied.

Behind him, the porters were building a fire for the night, and stoking it high while casting wary glances southward.

"Not that," she answered, pacing with restless energy.

Breandan rubbed his amulet and shrugged. It was odd, but only that. He wasn't worried.

* * *

That night there had been whines and a curious bark that was almost like laughter. When dawn broke, they found three dogs in the distance. The trio tailed them the entire day. Under direct sunlight, their mottled fur was visible, as was the glint of metal.

The porters murmured uneasily in their strange tongue. Breandan declared loudly at intervals that he wasn't concerned, and that they'd be rid of them soon enough once they reached the mountain pass.

The next night went the same as the last, and no one, not even Breandan woke feeling rested. They arose to find four figures in the distance south, and one more watching from the east where they'd traveled the day before. Still, Breandan smiled and bid them to make good time for the trail, promising a bonus if they were prompt in their return to the Khanate. That his smile didn't quite reach his eyes went unremarked upon.

It should have been only a few hours to the trail that third day, but they were surrounded on three sides by metal-clad dogs. The numbers varied —as few as six, though sometimes as many as thirteen— but always they followed from far enough away as to be difficult to make out.

Deeply unsettled, his hand seldom straying from his amulet, Breandan declared that they'd enter another trail, one they’d just reached the start of. The path they'd originally taken through the mountains had branched and merged in places and so, he claimed, this would see them to it and have them rid of these mongrels all the sooner.

Ealga made her displeasure known, but voiced no specific objections, merely her usual, vociferous grumbling.

It was slow and difficult going for the porters as they conveyed the heavy litters up the mountain path, but they saw no more of the dogs once they passed beyond the foothills. Breandan's relief manifested as boasting so vocal that Ealga threatened to have a kobold curse him mute if he didn't shut up.

Breandan laughed and slept easily that night.

The path wound steadily higher, and by the third day of their ascent, they had not yet rejoined the original route. When a porter cried in excitement, "Ilerideki vadi!" Breandan hoped it was because they'd spotted a familiar landmark.

Ealga frowned in puzzlement. "He said, 'Valley ahead.' We didn't cross any valleys going over."

"True, but a valley means water. And shelter. Maybe even some wild goats we could hunt," answered Breandan. "We can rest comfortably there while the porters go out in twos or threes to locate the path back."

"If it was such an oasis, there'd be others there," Ealga countered, her weapon held tightly as she looked warily about.

Rather than bicker further, the halflings joined the porters, and the party picked their way carefully down the path.

The valley was exactly as Breandan had hoped: lightly wooded, with a cool stream splitting it down the middle and the bleating of wild sheep audible in the distance. At Breandan's direction, the porters laid the chests down in a thicket, the hardy plants screening them from view.

The poles supporting the litters were detached and two of the porters fitted spear tips to the ends, winding twine around them to make them secure. They left to hunt with eager smiles on their faces, the others working to build camp and start a fire.

Filling a kettle from the stream, Breandan said, "If there were others here, we'd see the smoke from their fire." His hand grazed his amulet. "It's luck, pure and simple," he added with a grin.

Ealga harrumphed, handing down her waterskin for him to fill, her eyes roving the valley interior.

The first scream came before the tea had finished brewing.

With a strangely affirmed expression, Ealga berated the porters into action, forcing them to ready their spears as the entire party moved in the direction of the cry. Breandan had a cloak draped over his body, the fold of the material hiding the truncheon he held in his left hand. He was nowhere near the combatant Ealga was, but nor was he helpless.

They came upon a ramshackle smithy beside a charnel grounds. The hut housing the smithy was of such crude construction, it looked like it'd topple in even a modest breeze if it weren't for the coils of strange, silvery metal holding the clumsy woodwork together. There was no hint of smoke, but there was the glow of a flame from within. Scrap metal and eerily shiny bones were heaped beside it.

But what drew the eye was a space as wide as a wagon, in which four X-shaped gibbets stood: two sized for a human, two sized for a halfling. The wooden structures were caked with dried blood and desiccated bits of viscera. The grounds themselves were strewn with bits of fur and skin, as well as offal that had dried before it could rot.

Of the missing humans, there was no sign.

One of the four porters said something fearful and another made a noise of nauseated distress. A third turned to flee but only made it a dozen paces before staggering to a halt with a blood-curdling shriek.

Two dogs emerged from the undergrowth behind them, each clad in leather that was studded with silvery metal. Weapons were held to their backs via straps. They were long and heavily built, with mottled brown-and-yellow fur.

No, not dogs. Hyenas. Hyenas whose eyes burned with a malevolent intelligence.

"Into the smithy," commanded Ealga, who had crossed the length of the party in a heartbeat and was menacing the hyenas with her spear.

Pulse pounding in his chest, Breandan eyed the charnel grounds they'd have to cross as well as the pile of shining bones and metal heaped beside it. "But—"

"We saw an entire godsdamned pack of them earlier, and these two sure as shit didn't stay in the lowlands!" Ealga danced forward and flicked her spear out, and a hyena that had been edging closer slunk back to avoid the blow. "We fight with the smithy for cover or we get ripped apart!"

"Yes, listen to the morsel. You have walked all the way into our raiding camp. Finish the journey and climb into Jolijn's forge," a terrifying voice taunted. It was somehow high-pitched and husky at the same time, the Caint words inflected strangely. Some of the syllables had a growled undertone and it ended with a stuttering laugh.

Whirling about, Breandan saw a creature that was a mockery of animal and human both. A hyena's head studied them from atop broad, stooping shoulders, and it was covered with the same mottled brown-and-yellow fur as the laughing scavenger. It stood upright, but its arms and legs were beast-like, save that the arms ended in elongated paws capable of folding forward and curling in to grasp weapons. It had a mocking, open-mouth smile that revealed a multitude of sharp, yellowing teeth. Even with the stoop, it was level with the tallest human porters and twice as heavily muscled.

The creature alone would be fearful enough to stalk Breandan’s nightmares, but adding to the horror was the armor it wore. In place of pauldrons were leering skulls. Not that the pauldrons were skull-decorated; the pauldrons _were_ skulls. Greaves and gauntlets of lashed-together femurs covered its extremities, and its cuirass was an entire rib cage. In one hand it held a fierce-looking curved sword, and in the other was a shield made from the skull of a triceratops, complete with horns. It couldn't have been from an adult dinosaur, but it was still large enough to serve as a kite shield.

However, the bones weren’t bleached white or grisly with clinging remains. No, every bone was made of a silvery metal Breandan didn't recognize. He'd once seen a steel dagger that had been looted from a dwarf, and these bones' coloration was similar. However, unlike the dagger, each piece of macabre metal was covered with bands and whirls reminiscent of flowing water, like the shadows seen on the bottom of a shallow stream when the current sent ripples across the surface.

The curved sword was made of the same, mottled metal and, now that Breandan looked closer, he could see that its pommel was tibia-shaped.

"Back the fuck off, all of you, or I will spear you like Fngri on a boar hunt!" roared Ealga, whirling this way and that, her iron-tipped spear moving from target to target as five more armored hyenas emerged from the underbrush. 

Enemies surrounded them on three sides, with only the charnel grounds clear.

 _Gog,_ thought Breandan, the word bubbling up from some shocked corner of his mind. That was a gog, the bloody race of hyena-men. Which meant—

With a popping sound and the grind of metal rubbing against metal, one of the hyenas stretched out, bones and body parts realigning before it rose up to stand on two feet. It reached back with curling paws to retrieve the pair of axes strapped to its back. It wore only studded leather, but axeheads and armor both had the same water-patterned metal.

It pointed an axe in Ealga's direction. "Laat me die korte opeten," it chortled in a voice that sent chills down Breandan's spine.

"In the tongue of the prey," snapped the first gog, which stood both taller and broader than the second. Leering at the group, it added, "I enjoy the smell of their fear."

"Let me eat that one," repeated the second gog, licking its chops. "The bitch's meat will taste of fierceness."

One by one, the gogs surrounding them shifted, rising up onto two legs and readying their weapons. All, that is, save the two that had first emerged behind them.

 _To run us down,_ Breandan thought. The 'dogs' they'd seen in the lowlands had at times ran with full, animalistic speed. The upright gogs looked built for combat rather than mobility, so the two behind them must be there to catch anyone that attempted to flee.

If they got out of this alive, it wouldn’t be through fighting. Forcing a smile on his face, Breandan hooked the loop of his truncheon back onto his belt and then raised both of his hands in a nonthreatening fashion. He took a small step forward from the group and looked the gog leader in the eyes.

"Hello. I apologize if we strayed into your valley. I can—"

The gog leader snarled at him, pupils dilating in anger. The memory of one of that steader's mastiffs doing something similar made him realize that gogs must treat eye contact as a challenge.

Quickly dropping his gaze, he started anew. "We didn't mean to trespass, so I would like to offer you recompense in exchange for our safe departure."

"What can you offer, morsel, that would interest Vajèn the Bitch Mother?" challenged a third gog. All the gogs had tawny manes visibly running down the back of their necks, but this one's was spiked up into a mohawk, held upright with either fat or grease.

"I have wealth from the dwarves," answered Breandan, one hand lowering to finger his amulet without him realizing it.

"We will simply eat you and claim your wealth," growled a fourth.

"Only half the wealth," replied Breandan. "I had the other half hidden before we encamped." It was a lie but he delivered it smoothly.

The lead gog —Vajèn the Bitch Mother, apparently— gave a rumbling growl where another race might have hummed thoughtfully. "What sort of wealth do you offer, morsel?"

"Gold," he answered quickly. "Silver. Gemstones of every variety, cut and polished to perfection."

First Vajèn made that unpleasant stuttering laugh and then it was taken up by the rest of the pack.

That...wasn't a good sign.

"Zaai alleen as!" cried Vajèn.

"Maak alleen wapens!" answered the gogs.

That proved the breaking point for Ealga's patience.

Like an arrow from a bow, the guard sprang forward, her spear snaking out to take the bitch mother through the throat. The blow was turned aside by the triceratops shield, a line of sparks trailing where iron spearhead struck mottled metal.

Two of the subordinate gogs advanced, all while Vajèn laughed her terrible laugh.

One gog wielded a length of spiked chain, which it swung low in an effort to savage Ealga below the coverage of her aketon. The guard, however, sprung up and over the blow, her spear spinning around her in midair and slicing across the gog's unprotected muzzle.

The other was the one with the axes that had asked to eat Ealga. Before Ealga had even landed, it brought one axe down in a blow that raked across her backside. It carved a nasty furrow into her padded armor, but failed to draw blood.

Whipping her spear around, Ealga swatted the second axe blow aside, more sparks flying from the iron-on-metal impact. She then jabbed twice, her attacks turned away by the gog's grieves and breastplate, but it forced her opponent to retreat lest she make a third strike at its face.

Another gog started to approach, but was stopped when the bleeding gog with the chain snarled at it. Wound and ego smarting, it then turned back to Ealga, swinging its chain in a dizzying figure eight pattern as it advanced.

Her attention divided between the opponents, Ealga held her spear in a defensive position, retreating one step at a time back toward Breandan and the porters.

The chain gog swung out, the horizontal swipe at neck-height to the guard. Ealga dropped backward, her spear slapping the ground beside her. Then, almost too fast to watch, she dug the butt of her spear into the soil and launched herself upright once more. In the moment her feet were under her, Ealga lunged forward, burying the spearhead in the chain gog's throat.

She gave a savage whoop of victory—

—and then slammed forward into the dirt face-first with an axe embedded in the back of her skull, thrown by the second gog.

In a rush, the porters dropped their spears, three raising their hands in surrender while the fourth collapsed to his knees, weeping and wailing.

When Vajèn lunged forward, all teeth and violence, Breandan cowered behind his upraised truncheon. Which was why he was surprised when the bitch mother instead descended on the axe gog that'd killed Ealga, savaging it across its face and neck.

Dropping its remaining axe, the subordinate gog cringed, lowering its head and whimpering piteously.

With a final bark of rebuke, Vajèn withdrew. "You split the skull!" she snarled. Shrugging one of her leering, skeletal pauldrons, she said, "I would have commanded Jolijn to make me replacements with the small ones' skulls, but now they are not an intact pair!"

The subordinate gog gave another whimper of submission, noisily shifting into four-legged form and then backing away.

"We surrender!" exclaimed Breandan. The 'we' was redundant given the state of his porters, but perhaps he could receive better treatment if he was seen as compliant. Maybe even slip away if his sorely missing luck rallied.

"Good," answered Vajèn. Then, to two other gogs, she said, "Crucify the little, yapping one. Magog will have him before we pick at the remains. And see if the bitch pup still breathes. Magog may yet bless her bones for us." To another member of the pack, she added, "Butcher Noud after you remove the spear."

"Wait!" shouted Breandan over the alarmed cries of the porters. He retreated fearfully from the pair of gogs advancing his way. "I can work! Gogs take slaves; everyone knows that!"

"The humans will be slaves," answered Vajèn casually. "They work hard and last long before they break. You little ones eat too much and become crazed in confinement."

Breandan turned and fled, running blindly away. The hyena-shaped gogs covering the rear let him pass, and for the span of a single heartbeat Breandan had hope: hope that his luck had returned and he would scrabble out of the valley to safety.

He got another ten paces further away when the gogs deemed his head start was large enough to prove entertaining. Then they gave chase, moving with a speed Breandan couldn't hope to outpace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ask a gog who they're wearing, don't expect to hear a list of designers.
> 
> Gogs are the only race beside the dwarves who work steel. However, the dwarves forge carbon steel while the gogs (who don't so much forge their steel as _harvest_ it) have [Damascus steel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damascus_steel). The two are very distinctive in appearance, as you can see in the picture below, where a Damascus steel knife is between two carbon steel knives:  
> 
> 
> The porters' language was depicted with Turkish. The usual caveat about translation software applies.
> 
> The gogs' language was depicted with Dutch and I'd like to take a moment to speak to why that is. I needed some language as the stand-in for it in the text but the gogs are a pariah race of murderous cannibals. As such, I picked the country with the [highest standard of living](https://worldpopulationreview.com/country-rankings/standard-of-living-by-country) whose primary language wasn't already claimed for other use in Amalgam. This was so that I could be 'punching up' as much as possible here. The use of Dutch for the gogs is in no way meant to reflect on the speakers of Dutch, the countries and regions where that language is common, or any traditions or practices associated with the same.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	15. Looking Back on Ballinack (Bonnie's Past)

> _The trail winds ever onward._  
>  _The wheel spins without end._  
>  _No place will e’er stay me-_  
>  _No bed will e’er lay me-_  
>  _I only have the wind._

\- _Téigh’s Lament_ , a traditional wanderer poem

* * *

After four days in town, the caravan was leaving. The townsfolk were excited over the new tools they'd traded for — even if they didn't need all of them, the metal ones could be reforged into something useful. Moreover, bolts of cloth and seeds of something called a sweet potato had been negotiated for. Also Lorcan's family had adopted twins, the babes' caravaneer mother giving them over to be raised in a proper steader home. Bonnie's own sister, Neasa, had been caravan-born and adopted by Ma and Da, and twins were considered good luck since Fan and Téigh were twin deities.

The caravan was taking with it the nicest soapstone carvings and cheese the town had to offer, barrels of smoked meat, and a wagon full of animal feed.

It was also taking Ciara. The older of Ballinack's two would-be travelers was ready to depart, eager to begin her life of wandering, especially with the security and insight the caravaneers could afford her.

"I want to go too!" shouted Bonnie, arms spread wide as she stood in front of the lead wagon.

"Piss off, pipsqueak," answered one of the halflings riding in the wagon.

"No!" and Bonnie's face screwed up into a stubborn scowl. When the wagon driver tried to lead the oxen around Bonnie, she shuffled sideways, obstructing their way anew. "You're taking Ciara so you can take me too!"

Ciara, seated three wagons back and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, was trying very hard _not_ to meet Bonnie's eye.

The wagon driver looked like he was about to drive the oxen forward regardless when there was the clop-clop-clop of an approaching pony, Aibreann the caravan master riding to the front.

"Hold on, Tadhg," she commanded. Aibreann was stocky, her red hair pulled into a prominent ponytail, and she seemed to never be without her pipe. She wore the bronze daibo blade on her hip —a present Ma had given her bedmate these last four days— and she fixed Bonnie with a penetrating look.

Bonnie suddenly felt self-conscious of the fact that she'd decided to pull her own blonde hair into a ponytail that morning.

Chewing on her pipe for a beat, Aibreann turned to the wagon driver —Tadhg, apparently— and barked, "Take us out of here."

Bonnie's stomach fell into her shoes and she was just about to shout something in objection when Aibreann led her pony over and extended her hand down to the girl. When Bonnie only stared for a few heartbeats, Aibreann waggled her hand and said, "Come on. You'll ride with me for a bit."

Taking her hand, Aibreann hauled Bonnie up, setting the girl in front of her and holding her in place with one arm while the other held the pony's reins. "Hyup!" she called, setting the pony to a trot.

Having never ridden anything bigger than a goat before, Bonnie clung to Aibreann's arm for dear life.

Aibreann led the pony to the side, letting it slow down so that the caravan started to pass them by. Bonnie, when she saw Ciara gawking at her from the wagon, sat higher in the saddle and stuck her tongue out at the girl.

Behind her, Aibreann chuckled. She smelled like leather and pipe smoke and she was, in Bonnie's estimation, the coolest person in Creation. "You're Grainne's gal, aren't ya?"

It took Bonnie a moment to recognize Ma's name — she was always 'Ma' at home or 'Miss Keogh' around the stead. She nodded a beat later. "I'm Bonnie."

"How old are you?" asked Aibreann, the last wagon in the caravan pulling ahead of the trotting pony.

"Thirt-" Bonnie spoke before she'd intended: she'd wanted to lie, to say she was fifteen but there was no walking this back. Besides, Aibreann would probably ask Ciara if she doubted Bonnie's answer and Felim's older sister wouldn't hesitate a heartbeat to rat her out. "Thirteen, but I touched the rock outside the stead when I was nine!" she insisted.

"Nine?" Behind her, Bonnie heard the caravan master shift her pipe from one side of her mouth to the other then give a low whistle in surprise. "The wanderlust must be potent in you to take hold so young," and there was a sorrowful tone to Aibreann's voice that left Bonnie feeling chilled.

Unsure how to react, Bonnie continued to press her case. "I'm twice the traveler Ciara is. She didn't touch the rock until she was fourteen." Bonnie tried to swivel around to look at Aibreann but it was difficult in the saddle and the glimpse she caught of the woman's face didn't tell her much. The hilt of the bronze daibo blade pressed into Bonnie's hip as she did.

"Most don't leave 'til they're Ciara's age," said Aibreann in her unhurried drawl, the woman's Caint accented in a way Bonnie had never encountered before. "The youngest I ever heard of was fifteen." Before Bonnie could reply, she shrugged and said, "We'll find out soon enough."

Blinking, Bonnie puzzled this remark over until she noticed a certain rock they were going to ride past. Unable to help herself, Bonnie swallowed, hands gripping the pony's mane tightly.

As they reached the rock, Bonnie wrote off the queasiness in her stomach as nothing more than nervousness. She held her breath as they passed the rock itself, her chest still feeling tight when she exhaled a few seconds later.

The pony continued to trot on.

Up ahead, Bonnie saw Ciara leaning out the side of the wagon, gawking at the town they were departing. As the twist of the road was putting Ballinack more and more out of sight, the seventeen-year-old was leaning further and further out until, with a yelp, she nearly toppled out of the wagon entirely. However, a pair of hands gripped her and pulled her safely back into the wagon.

There was distant laughter heard from the wagon which was echoed by Aibreann; apparently this sort of thing was expected for first-time wanderers.

They rode in silence, Bonnie feeling every muscle in her body twisting up like a too-tight coil of rope. 

Probably two or three miles out, only barely visible from the edge of Ballinack, was a distant hill. Bonnie had never known before that the far-side of the hill was eroded, bands of colored stone exposed to sunlight. For some reason that sight caused her steader instincts to slam into her like a charging ram.

She flailed and would have fallen entirely out of the saddle if a strong hand hadn't grabbed her by the back of her tunic.

There was something sad said behind her but Bonnie was too busy being noisily ill over the side of the saddle to make it out. The pony turned and cantered back toward town, Bonnie's symptoms lessening as they went.

Aibreann sat her down on the rock while she stayed on her pony. She took a long pull of her pipe and then blew out a sinuous cloud of smoke. "Sorry, kid," she said.

Bonnie, who had been spitting the taste of bile out of her mouth and generally getting over the steader shakes, jolted, bolting upright. "Wait! You can't leave me here!"

When that morning Neasa had passed on word that the caravan was departing, Bonnie had felt a nameless fear grip her, intense for all its suddenness. It hadn't been until she'd thrown herself in front of the lead wagon that she'd realize that fear had been being left behind.

She _had_ to leave Ballinack.

Aibreann shook her head, her red ponytail swaying with the motion. "I can't take you with me either." She shifted the pipe to the other side of her mouth. Then, trying to sound chipper, she said, "As far as you made it today, you'll probably be able to leave by the next solstice."

That was five months out.

"But-" and Bonnie had to stop and spit once more, her stomach not quite fully settled. Mercifully, Aibreann retrieved a water skin from somewhere and handed it to Bonnie, the girl rinsing her mouth out before taking a few grateful swallows. The water was sweet in contrast to the taste of bile.

When Aibreann had set the nauseated Bonnie down on the rock, the blonde girl had swiped the daibo blade free from its sheath on Aibreann’s belt. Impulses found little resistance in Bonnie, which was why she was now having to scoot a little to keep the purloined knife hidden behind her back.

Bonnie wiped her mouth on her sleeve, her face the picture of worry. "But yours was the first caravan to come to Ballinack in seven years." Handing the skin back, she asked with equal parts hope and fear, "You'll come back, r-right?"

Before their departure, Bonnie had overheard the grumbling from some of the caravaneers. Despite the stead's _energetic_ attempts to welcome the travelers, Ballinack wasn't a wealthy town and most of what they had to offer either wouldn't fetch much in trade, would transport poorly, or both. A caravan needed more than hospitality to justify its visits.

There was silence between her and Aibreann for a long moment. Then the caravan master took a deep puff and released a cloud of smoke. "Yeah," she said, her face obscured. "Sure, kid."

* * *

Bonnie was suffocating. A great snake had coiled itself around her and was squeezing her so hard that she couldn't force air into her burning lungs. She struggled, heaved with all the strength she could muster, screamed her fear and defiance. She wrenched just enough of an opening that she was able to make a desperate gasp... and immediately started to sputter and gag.

It wasn't air but a nauseating miasma of goat-stink. She was in the animal pen and someone had tripped her, had shoved her face-first into the muck and was now pinning her down while she choked on goat shit and mud.

"Bonnie!" screamed the goats.

"No! Let me go!" Bonnie flailed, struggled against the force pinning her down.

She felt flat teeth close around her ponytail and start to tug. They were grazing on her. They'd pushed her into the mud and transformed her into grass. She was trapped, she would never move again, and every day the goats would chew her down to a shit-stained nub.

A ram hobbled over and shrieked at her. "Bonnie! Stop!" It had matted fur and a festering wound at the stump of where one of its legs should be.

Bonnie pulled herself up from the mire, desperation lending her strength. Roots were extending from her skin and they writhed, trying to grab hold of the soil and anchor her anew. She couldn't let them. If she didn't get up, they'd—

Water was dumped over Bonnie, shocking her awake and leaving her making shivering gasps.

Da looked down at her, concern visible on his face. He leaned against the crumbly wattle-and-daub wall to take weight off his bad foot. However, it was Neasa who held the dripping bucket.

"You were screaming again," Bonnie's sister said in a sour voice, visibly disheveled from interrupted sleep. With a huff, she let the bucket clatter to the dirt floor at the foot of Bonnie's cot. "And you ripped your blanket. Freak."

A look showed that she had indeed torn her blanket nearly in half, the larger portion of the sodden covers resting in the dirty puddle surrounding her sleeping corner.

It was false dawn outside. The wattle-and-daub walls of the small house seemed to press in, as if her nightmare were attempting to squeeze into the waking world. Bonnie stumbled off of her cot and moved with feverish energy for the door, pausing only long enough to grab the sack of her belongings by the exit.

Someone called after her but she paid it no mind, urgency and the lingering shock of her nightmare lending her speed.

Marching out into the pre-dawn, Bonnie retrieved her bronze daibo blade from the sack and etched a tally in the drooping elm by the lane. Then she walked out onto the lane and wound her way through the too-small, goat-choked town of Ballinack. She walked past the rock she'd first touched six years ago. She walked past the eroded hill. She walked further still.

The tally marks on the elm were beyond counting. It had been fourteen months since Aibreann's caravan had left. Bonnie had waited for her to return, for any caravan to come to Ballinack. For months she'd been living a strained existence, alternately staying at home and residing in camps just beyond town. Early on, she’d been able to spend a day in camp for every month at home. But now she was lucky to get two consecutive nights in town before hounded beyond the boundaries of the stead. The wanderlust filled her so full that Bonnie felt fit to burst, that there was room for nothing else save the _need_ to be elsewhere.

It was dangerous for wanderers to travel alone. As her former stead disappeared around the bend, Bonnie squeezed the daibo blade in her hand.

"Try and fucking stop me!" she shouted to the world outside of Ballinack, cold, hungry, and utterly defiant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Impulsive, determined, and violent: Bonnie in three words.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	16. Left Stewing

> _All this healing can’t be good for me._

\- ‘Big’ Cathal Hurley of the Duncrana militia

* * *

Bonnie awoke, starving and confused. She looked at the walls and high ceiling of the temple, her mind wrapped in wool. Her arm was itching something fierce, but when she went to scratch it, she found it was wrapped in bandages.

 _Godsdammit, past-Bonnie,_ she thought. _How did you wind up here of all—_

Gradually, details percolated up from memory. A troll. A heckuva fight. Injuries to both her and— She snapped her head over to find the cot beside her empty.

 _Deag must be better already._ She breathed a little easier... though her arm still itched like Magog's flea-infested ass-crack.

Someone was approaching, and Bonnie awkwardly raised her head to get a better view. He was a red-headed steader whose complexion was best described as 'ten parts freckles, one part pasty.' He was a priest, going by the robe, but too young to be anyone important. She vaguely remembered him from earlier, but she couldn't be arsed to think on that because his name was way down on the list of important things about him just then.

Topping that particular list, though, was the bronze tureen he was carrying. Lines of brown stew had dribbled a little over one side, and wisps of steam trickled up from the lip of the lid.

"Oh, you're awake," said Freckles McGingerpants, walking with agonizing slowness as he held the tureen carefully in front of him.

Bonnie had already hauled herself upright, her stomach rumbling like a thunderhead and her eyes fixed on the tureen. "Awake and starving."

Setting the tureen down on the adjacent cot, he pulled a wooden tray from a small bedside table and laid it across Bonnie's lap. He then gathered up a spoon and a clean cloth napkin, setting both on the tray, all while the food remained achingly close but out of reach.

He was in the process of carefully folding the napkin when Bonnie snapped, "Just gimme the food, Freckles!" her stomach adding a seismic rumble of rebuke all its own.

Startled and a little annoyed, he did as demanded and moved the tureen in front of Bonnie.

"Be careful. It's—" was as far as he got because Bonnie already had the lid off and was spooning food into her mouth. Yeah, it burned, but this was a temple. They were healing her, so they could heal that too while they were at it: in a contest between her stomach and the roof of her mouth, the stomach reigned supreme.

It was a meaty stew, with diced root vegetables and some fishy flavor she couldn't quite place. Bonnie did a feat of magic all her own and made it disappear. She was scraping the bottom and sides to get remnants when a heavyset priestess in expensive purple robes and a glittering, blue skullcap walked over, Freckles following a respectful distance behind.

With some resistance, Freckles pried the spoon and tureen from Bonnie's grip. The priestess then stared expectantly at Bonnie for several heartbeats, her eyes going to Bonnie's lap and back before she cleared her throat. "Your napkin," she finally said in that oddly high-pitched voice of hers.

"Huh? Oh, right." Bonnie took it and dabbed herself as best she could.

That seemed to satisfy the priestess, and so Freckles took the napkin from Bonnie and then unwound the layers of cloth around her arm. Two lines of pink, hairless flesh marked the injury site, the skin around it puffy and a little inflamed.

The priestess tutted and shook her head at that. "I had hoped it would be healing more swiftly. I'll have to call upon a stronger cure spell or you'll be here for most of a month." While Bonnie goggled in alarm at the mere mention of being in the same place for so long, the priestess turned and said to her assistant, "Fetch the ritual kit."

"Specific implements, your Worship?" asked Freckles.

"My silver periapt," came the answer. Then, when it looked like Freckles was going to ask something else, the priestess added, "And rose quartz powder for reagent."

He looked surprised by that, but didn't let that slow him, offering a curt bow before scampering off into the back of the temple.

"What's that do?" asked Bonnie, a frisson of nervousness within her. She reached to scratch her itchy arm and her hand was absently swatted by the priestess.

"It will focus and deepen the creational energies of the spell," answered the portly priestess. She gave Bonnie a smile that looked more perfunctory than genuine. "Your injury will heal faster, but it'll take a larger toll on you as a consequence."

"What kind of toll are we—" 

Freckles came hustling back, and Bonnie was ignored while the priestess fitted a silver headband thingy into place and scooped up a handful of pink powder.

The assistant stepped clear and the priestess started to chant as she came around from one side of the cot to the other. "~Vanu-Vanu-Vanu, goddess of wrath and mercy, I invite you into Creation. My faith be your conduit, my hands be the channel through which your power flows. Mercy, mercy, forgiveness and respite, oh goddess. Vanu-Vanu-Vanu~"

Her headband was reflecting a light that wasn't there and there was a faint distortion in the air around the hand clutching the magical rock dust or whatever it was. Raising her closed fist over Bonnie's injured arm, the priestess slowly uncurled her thick fingers, letting the pink granules spill. They fell like slow rain onto Bonnie's forearm as she felt them bounce off her flesh, but somehow they vanished before clattering to the floor or spilling across the cot.

Bonnie found herself suddenly exhausted, as if she'd exited a brawl or finished an especially energetic fuck. Blinking her eyes, she tried to focus, noticing the ripple of distortion radiating off her arm. But then her eyelids drooped, and her head hit her pillow.

Her last thought wasn't anything coherent, just a fleeting wish that someone would take a boar-bristle brush to her arm, which was itching like mad.

* * *

Usually it was an empty stomach that woke Bonnie. Sometimes it was a full bladder. Deag visited at times. So did Eithne and, once, even Shona. But after who-knew-how-many wakings, none of that stuff much mattered to the wanderer. Because the room was trying to smother her.

The ceiling bowed inward, the walls pressed in, and the very air was bearing down on her, constricting her chest so much that she could barely draw breath.

She'd tried to go for a walk once after using the chamber pot, but the priests had ushered her back to bed. Later, when she _really_ needed that walk, she'd tossed one of those robe-jockeys aside and made for the exit. That pear-shaped priestess had stepped in, chanting something and waving her arms. A moment later, Bonnie blacked out.

What had it been? A week? Two? A month?! Was the caravan even still here? Had they left her? Was she going to have to leave this damp, shit-hole stead _on foot?_

The air was hot and still, like standing inside the chicken coop in summer. She wanted to get out. She needed to get out. It was too hot and crushing in here and she could hear the rattle of her breath drawn through a throat that was closing up. She could barely breathe, so why the fuck weren't they letting her leave?!

There were two priests fucking about with chalk over by the big board of slate —one white-haired, the other blonde— but the temple was otherwise empty. Was the priestess around? Bonnie would need something —a supper knife, a broken table leg for a club, hells, just a rock at the bottom of a stocking would probably do— if that fat bitch showed up.

Bonnie waited a dozen agonizing heartbeats. She'd already worked her much-healthier looking arm free from its bandage, feverishly studying her surroundings before her patience snapped.

The temple had guards watching the exit. She'd learned that already, which was why when she slipped out of bed, she moved whisper-quiet to the opposite side of her prison instead of making for the front. She'd snatched the wooden plate sitting on her bedside, tucking it under one arm while she moved as swiftly as stealth would allow.

One of the chalk-botherers, the blonde, turned away so that he didn't sneeze all over the slate board. His eyes went wide as he saw Bonnie more than two-thirds across the temple and heading their way. However, all he could do was point and make inarticulate noises as he rode out a trio of sneezes.

The other priest paid him no mind until the first grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged.

"If you just wiped your—" Following the blonde's pointing finger, he turned and saw Bonnie sprinting toward them. "Hey!" he roared in a surprisingly loud voice for an old guy.

Weaving around a table covered with an abstract model of Dahir, Bonnie leapt over a sack of gravel, her eyes locked on the ladder a few yards away from the priests. The old man gave another shout, but it was the younger one maneuvering through furniture and supplies that made Bonnie wary.

Grabbing a talisman from within his robes, he started to chant—

—until a wooden plate hurled like a discus hit him square in the face. Dropping his talisman, he clutched his face in both hands and howled in distress.

Bonnie had actually been aiming for his throat, but she wasn't going to complain. She let out a vindictive chuckle as she took the rungs of the ladder up two at a time.

With a solid shove —Gods, it felt good to have two working arms again— the trapdoor into the room at the top of the ladder banged open. Scrabbling up, Bonnie slammed it shut once more, then dragged a heavy sack of weird-looking corn over the top of it.

Earlier, before the walls had really started pressing in on Bonnie, she'd seen Shona and the shobo climb up this very ladder and come back down later. Shona's dumb, red-brown hair had been noticeably wind-swept. Bonnie remembered because she'd had a barbed comment ready in case the woman came close. The temple had guards who watched the exit, but she was willing to bet her favorite dagger that they had no one watching the roof or balcony or wherever this led.

Looking around, she saw she was in some sort of lookout tower that was sheltered on three sides. The fourth side opened onto a small, wooden platform, and the rest of the temple roof lay beyond. There were stray feathers scattered about, so maybe it sometimes served as an aviary.

 _I'll be keeping that favorite dagger after all,_ she thought with visceral glee. The view of the unwalled world beyond was beautiful to her in the way food was to the starving.

There was a muted thump from the trapdoor, but the heavy sack held it shut. Bonnie darted out onto the platform and then slid lithely down onto the roof itself. She giggled with manic enthusiasm as she made good her escape.

* * *

The day the caravan left Dahir, Shona had the wagons ride hard eastward, everyone having to take their meals on the move until dinner. This wasn't because of Bonnie's daring escape from the Temple of Abject Stir-Craziness, but rather because Shona was determined to reach some Khanate city sooner rather than later.

Bonnie didn't understand the hurry, but it meant they'd reach another steader town sooner, which she was all for. The blonde had a couple of fond 'strapped to a cot' memories, but she didn't care one whit for Dahir's version. Maybe the steaders in the next town would redeem the practice.

When the caravan did stop for the night, everyone piled out in a hurry, eager to stretch their legs and get a warm meal prepped. Tiarnán and Anlon left to go fell a tree or two for firewood and seating: the trunks would be used as benches around the campfire. Fergus went to hunt up some herbs to help season the stew. Bonnie made a point to haul the big copper stew pot out of the central wagon because she was one of the few in the caravan who could do it by herself.

Her right arm still itched, and trembled slightly from the weight, but she didn't think anyone noticed.

Eithne and Deaglán were getting the wheel chocks in place, the latter using a wooden mallet to tamp them firmly into place so none of the wagons would roll or shift unexpectedly.

"Be careful with that arm," Deag called, waiting for Eithne to get the next chock into place. "It might be a bit tender still."

Stepping clear so he'd have room to swing, Eithne hollered with a grin, "Don't listen to him, Bonnie! You fuck up that arm any time you want."

On the ride out from Dahir, Bonnie had learned about the betting pool Fergus had organized. The bets covered how many days they'd actually stay in the stead before Bonnie was healed, escaped, or got them chased out of town. Eithne had won the pool, hence her cheer.

"You're buying my drinks in town," answered Bonnie, going slow since maneuvering a pot nearly as big as her through a busy campsite was tricky. "Or I'm letting you fight the next troll."

Eithne made a gesture Bonnie couldn't return with her arms full, and the blonde hauled the heavy cookware over where it looked like the campfire would go.

Shona and Connor were taking an inventory of the wagons, as they usually did the first night after leaving a stead. They'd purchased mostly dyed cloth and salt in town, though several sacks of shell-based trinkets had come along as well. They'd probably try to sell those once they were far enough from Dahir that the markets weren't saturated with the snail-based crafts.

As soon as Anlon got back with the first load of firewood, Betha and Eimear each snatched up a share and then sprinted for the center of camp, hurling good-natured insults at one another. The pale face of Betha's ferret was visible from her lowered hood, the animal unbothered by the bumpy ride.

"What's going on?" Bonnie asked, joining the gradually thickening circle of onlookers.

"First one to start a fire wins," answered Dana without looking away.

Bonnie grinned. "Any stakes, or just 'cause?"

Dana shot Bonnie a smirk. "You know Eimear doesn't need an excuse to play with fire. And Betha thinks she's half kobold or something."

All true, and Bonnie said as much around a laugh. Gods it felt good to be on the road again.

After hastily assembling their wood and tinder, Eimear and Betha each started striking flint against fool's gold, trying to get a spark to catch. The audience cheered and jested, their voices rising when Betha gave a cry of "Ignis!" as she stood proudly over her crackling fire.

The only one not smiling was Séamus. The sour old kook spared a moment to glower at everyone before he turned back to unhitch the next horse from the line of wagons and lead it over to a water trough and some feed. Apparently there hadn't been a good replacement for Nally in Dahir, so they only had the eleven horses.

After giving Betha a congratulatory pat on the shoulder —and taking a moment to run a hand across Cucullo's fur— Bonnie looked around, wondering where Batugei had gotten off to. Vex too, since she was apparently sticking with the caravan.

Bonnie jogged over and then hopped up onto the bed of Shona's wagon. Using a pony keg for a boost, she grabbed the lip of the canvas cover’s frame and hauled herself up, ignoring the faint twinge from her right arm. She waded carefully across the shifting fabric underfoot, craning her neck this way and that, looking for a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette or a hint of stripes.

The sun was already halfway below the horizon, so the shadows were long, but Sudal lowering his head to graze caught her eye. Oddly enough, the zebra was probably a hundred yards from camp, half-obscured by a cluster of trees. Rather than wonder why, Bonnie launched herself from the canvas cover. There was that eyeblink-long moment when her body tingled with excitement from the fall, where it felt like her stomach was in her ribs, and Bonnie enjoyed the rush of it before landing in a roll and popping up.

Some things were worth getting grass in your hair.

Rather than jogging noisily over, Bonnie decided to pick her way quietly through the scrub to see what the orc was up to outside of camp.

"Тэд зулзага шиг. Гэхдээ би зулзага дуртай," said Vex. The tone was wry but there was a quality to the shobo’s voice that always sounded a little angry.

"Оройн хоолонд?" answered Batugei, audibly amused.

As Bonnie crept closer, Sudal paused in his grazing, but didn't raise his head. Facing sideways relative to her, the zebra had a single eye trained on the halfling. His was an unimpressed stare.

Bonnie raised a finger to her lips, then crept closer still.

"Лалар," replied Vex, the single word sounding like a swear. "Би хэтэрхий илэрхий байсан юм."

A basso orcish chuckle followed but was cut short when Sudal raised his head to fix Bonnie with a bored stare.

Noticing his mount's behavior, Batugei leaned forward on the wooden stool he was sitting on and peered in Bonnie's direction. Vex, sitting on the ground, peered around Batugei's bulk to do the same. The two were on the shady side of the trees, but their eyes caught enough of the distant campfire light to do that thing animal eyes did where they seemed to glow in the dimness.

Bonnie knew orcs and bakemonos had good night vision but, gods, that was creepy-looking.

"Hey." Bonnie gave a small wave to the pair while she mentally flipped off Sudal. "What are you two talking about?"

One corner of Batugei's mouth curled up into the start of a smile. "We were sharing tales of—"

Vex interrupted. "We were bitching about halflings," and her grin was sharp, as if daring Bonnie to be upset.

"Really?" Bonnie gave a small laugh. Walking with deliberate swagger, she went and sat down opposite the two. "Unless you're griping about us being too amazing, I don't know what there is to talk about," she said in a teasing drawl.

Batugei's grin widened and Vex rolled her eyes with a snort.

"Your people can be like excited children," said the orc. "Hungry and excited children."

"You're too damn loud, your attention span for anything besides fucking is virtually nil, you have no concept of personal space, and most of you fuckers can't cross a room without running for no damn reason," elaborated Vex. Idly, she ran her hand across the pouches of her tool belt as if counting the contents by touch.

"Or you skip," added Batugei, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Oh, fuck, the skipping!" Vex crowed with a head shake and a cackle.

Bonnie folded her arms across her chest, her expression stern. "Halflings do not skip."

Batugei's expression went neutral and one of Vex's eyebrows rose sharply up.

"We charge. In short bursts." Bonnie's dour facade started to crack as she was unable to keep one corner of her mouth from rising into a smirk. "So we arrive quickly without getting winded," and a snort of her own escaped unbidden.

That proved too much for the other two, Batugei's booming laugh shaking the air while Vex cackled some more.

From a little ways behind her, Bonnie heard chewing and a derisive snort.

After a long moment of shared amusement, Vex pulled a wooden rod with little marks spread evenly across its length from her tool belt and twiddled it between her fingers. With a nod toward Batugei, she said, "I need to practice my Khel, and was desperate to get the fuck away from the press of bodies, so we headed over here."

"It is good to speak it again," declared Batugei. "And, yes, she does need to practice."

"Ялгадас иднэ!" was Vex's acerbic retort.

"Only a whelp trying to invent an insult would say that. Say 'пизда' instead," corrected Batugei.

"Пизда!" snapped Vex.

"Пизда!" added Bonnie, having no idea what she was saying.

Shaking her head, Vex muttered, "The things I do for intellectual stimulation around here," half-sincere and half-mocking.

Letting that remark slide by, Batugei said to Bonnie, "Your arm is better?"

"Uh huh. Geimhreadh take bed rest, but at least I've got a working arm out of the deal," she answered. Then to Vex she said, "Thanks for saving—" Bonnie stumbled as she encountered something she didn't want to think about. "—my arm," she finished.

"Yeah." Vex seemed momentarily awkward, her fiddling with that wooden rod growing faster. Then she stowed the thing back in her tool belt and leaned forward. "Death by a troll matter infestation is one of the nastier ways to go without involving sorcery." A beat as she looked thoughtful. "Or a well-stocked lab." Another pause. "Or these obsidian flensing knives they make in Hafr Al-Namas; they're unbelievably sharp, but entirely mundane."

"Right..." said Bonnie several heartbeats later, a skeptical glance passing between her and Batugei. Then her midsection rumbled and she rose to her feet. "You two hungry?"

"Yes," they answered.

"Wanna come sit by the campfire?"

"Hells no," // "No, thank you," said Vex and Batugei over one another.

"Want me to bring you two bowls when the stew's done?"

"Yeah, sure." A heartbeat later Vex seemed to remember to smile, but given the jagged teeth on display, Bonnie kind of wished she hadn't.

"That would be much appreciated," said Batugei. Leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, he added, "No meat for Vex." His tone was friendly, but there was a hint of iron there where it hadn't been before.

Vex's expression soured, the shobo taking a sudden interest in the horizon opposite Bonnie and Batugei.

“Uh, sure.” Bonnie left at that. As she was entering the edge of the campfire, a glance back showed Vex climbing into an unoccupied wagon.

She made a point to set a bowl of stew just inside the bed of that wagon. Vegetables only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intensity of wanderlust can vary from wanderer to wanderer. You can probably guess at which extreme Bonnie's lies.
> 
> While I used translation software for much of the Khel (i.e. Mongolian) dialogue here, I tried to do some extra research for the swears so the characters didn't come across like kids insulting one another with overly literal phrases. In that research I discovered 'пизда' (pizda), which is a very general purpose swear, an exclamation akin to 'fuck', 'damn', or 'shit' in English. I point this out because that doesn't necessarily come across with a literal translation.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	17. Settling Disputes

> _‘To choke at your own feast.’ It’s a Khalmyk expression; heard it fighting alongside some orc mercenaries at Rust Mountain. It means when there’s an obviously good idea that stabs you in the ass. The commander choked at his own feast when he tried to burn those damned elves out of hiding and the wind shifted back on us._

\- report from Akram Haddad, human Khanate soldier

* * *

Several days of eastward travel had seen them reach Nallow, a nice enough little stead that had a bustling quarry, which Bonnie didn't care about, and an amazing local pastry filled with dates and honey, which Bonnie cared very much about. The steaders pulled marble from the quarry, which meant the place had statues like a bakemono had teeth, and you could tell the place had been annexed by the Khanate only a decade ago by the fact that all the newest statues were of hobs.

Being a Khanate town, Bonnie had taken the time to get her ponytail in place.

Normally the arrival of a caravan was cause for local celebration but the people of Nallow were preoccupied with something else: settlers. Half of the youngest generation of steaders were going to be leaving soon, and the town was hustling to ready them with wagons, draft animals, and supplies before they departed.

No one had offered to tie Bonnie to a cot in a good way yet, but there were pastries enough that she wasn't upset.

"Where do settlers come from?" asked Vex.

Bonnie, Deag, Batugei, and Vex were all en route to a tavern to meet Eithne and Betha. According to Betha, if you flashed a spiral tattoo at the owner then you'd get your first drink free (and maybe the second if more was flashed than just a tattoo). Since Eithne was almost more spiral tat than halfling, the hope was that she'd get free drinks for the whole group.

"See, boy halflings have this thing called a cock and girl halflings—" started Bonnie before the shobo cut her off with an energetic and probably very colorful tirade of orc-speak.

Judging from Batugei's laughter, it'd been a creative rant at that. Bonnie laughed too, but for a different reason: she was used to hearing words like that from deep-voiced, barrel-chested orcs, so getting the same from a furry little runt like Vex was funny.

Once she'd finished deriding Bonnie's breeding or whatever orc swears were about, Vex said, "I understand the steader-wanderer dichotomy, but where the hells do settlers fit into the paradigm?"

A steader driving a herd of cattle across the road forced the group to wait, and the lowing grew too loud to talk over. Deag gave the steader a wave and Bonnie shot him a wink, but Batugei seemed more interested in studying the cows. Vex just stood there impatiently, fiddling with the latches on that weird waterskin she'd made.

"You only get a couple wanderers in each generation," Deag explained after the cattle had passed. The group stepped carefully to avoid the fresh patties left in the road. "So if people are living long enough and their kids are surviving, the stead will get crowded sooner or later. Barlow was that way when I had to go; people can get pretty snippy with each other when there isn't enough stead to go around."

A fat horse-fly was buzzing around Bonnie's head, which she smacked out of the air.

Without taking her eyes off Deag, Vex crouched and grabbed the stunned bug, absent-mindedly popping it into her mouth. "So it's a product of population density?" Vex asked after chewing once and swallowing.

"Maybe," Deag hedged, looking a little uncertain. "It's not planned or really something you can anticipate. Having more steaders helps, but I've heard of it happening to towns with less than two hundred people, while Barlow was pushing five times that and still waiting."

Vex considered this, her brows furrowed as if hoping to intimidate the answer into revealing itself. She had a really expressive face, even if most of those looks were pissy ones. Batugei, meanwhile, used a small knife to carve bits off a small block of cheese. Vex didn't even notice when he offered her some, but Deag took a slice with a nod of thanks, and Bonnie started to take it until she noticed it was goat cheese and then waved him off.

To Vex, Bonnie said breezily, "Sometimes about half the steader boys and girls who are coming of age all get the urge to be somewhere else. So they go with as much as the town can spare. And then they stay. Forever. It's like being one-time wanderers."

They made their way past a flat-nosed statue that someone had egged. Bonnie chuckled. Then she noticed the spiral that'd been etched into the hob's ass and she laughed out loud.

 _That probably pissed those cherry-stinking bastards all the way off,_ she thought with wry amusement.

Batugei finished his snack, putting the rest of the cheese block and the small knife back in their pouches. Leaning in, he said, "What's most worrying is that the settlers from multiple cities gather into hordes. Only then do they try and claim new land." His right hand rose up and grazed the pommel of his big-ass sword, as if he was reaching for a weapon without realizing it.

"And they hire on caravans like ours to help them make the trip," Bonnie said, her voice growing harsh. "Which we should be doing instead of heading into the center of the fucking Khanate. What in the hells is Shona thinking, the dumb bitch?" Before the others could remark, Bonnie shook her head and continued. "I don't know if you can make wagon wheels in the middle of an orgy, but I'm pretty sure Tiarnán is finding out right now. Did you see how hungry those settlers got when they heard he was a wheelwright? And I think they'd have stormed the caravan if Shona hadn't agreed to sell them some of our spare wheels. They know they're gonna need every wagon they can slap together."

Gripping herself like she was suddenly cold, she added, "Because you sure as shit don't want to go it on foot."

Either not noticing the shift in tone or simply not caring, Vex muttered, "I bet the hobs record when settler diasporas happen. With that and census data, someone could probably derive the underlying mechanism. Not that they'd share it if I asked, the flat-nosed fuckers."

Bonnie and Deag shared a look of mutual incomprehension; the words had all been Caint, but the meaning had flown right over her bushy ponytail. Whatever the case, they'd rounded a corner, and there was Eithne and Betha out front of a tavern, the latter waving them down.

* * *

The Lost Trireme was a heck of a place. Somehow the owner had gotten blue varnish for the bar —Bonnie hadn't even known that was a thing— which made the wooden tankards atop it look like boats afloat on the sea. Netting hung from the ceiling like boughs in a canopy, a few fish carved from wood suspended within. The owner loudly boasted that the wood of the bar was made from the prow of the very trireme the place was named after.

Seeing as Nallow bordered a narrow river instead of a sea, it was a very lost trireme indeed.

A throng of settlers dominated the middle of the room, hungry from a hard day readying for their departure. Bonnie's ponytail stood out —it was big enough to— and she was enjoying the looks it brought her way. The six of them claimed a pair of tables, both halfling-sized, while Batugei stole a seat from the only table sized for the taller races, carrying it over to join them. Despite being Khanate, shobos were more often pests than guests in Nallow, so Bonnie made a point of pulling back Vex's seat for her to climb into. The shobo was savvy enough to play along.

Betha, absent her ferret, who was hunting for mice around the wagons, took the group's drink orders. She then grabbed Eithne by the elbow and the two made their way to the bar. The owner wore a battered admiral's hat and gave a pleased clap when Betha rolled up her sleeve to show the pattern on her bicep. He set a tankard down with a resonant thump and loudly asked her what she wanted to drink. Then Eithne pulled the sleeve of her left arm up to show the start of her tattoo.

Another clap from the admiral and the thump of an empty tankard landing invitingly atop the bar.

Eithne pulled her sleeve up to the bicep, showing that she was pure spiral from forearm upward. The admiral laughed in delight and thumped down another tankard. By this point the settlers had noticed something was happening and were gawking in the direction of the bar.

 _If Enny isn't loving every moment of this, I'll eat my boots,_ thought Bonnie, pleased for her friend but at the same time, a little irked at being overshadowed.

The dark-haired spiralist started to wind her sleeve up further but Betha, impatient or jealous herself, reached over and yanked Eithne's tunic up over Eithne's head. Except where the linen of her chest wrap covered, the whole mosaic of inky spiral was laid bare, stark against Eithne's pale skin.

A flash of annoyance crossed Eithne's face but an instant later it was a mask of calm assurance. The woman made a slow rotation all the way around —to cheers and applause from the settlers— before pulling her tunic back into position.

The admiral stood there, mouth agape for a beat before a smile split his face and he shouted, "Now _that's_ a spiral. Free drinks for you and yours!" and this time the cheers included the caravan contingent as well.

A group of four humans entered the tavern and were pretty much ignored as Betha made a production of wrapping her arms around six filled tankards and walking triumphantly back to her tables. That there were only three seats available for the group of four humans was cause for some consternation. One of them, apparently the lowest in the pecking order, looked first at the half-sized chairs still available and then at the conspicuously-seated Batugei.

The orc flashed him a carnivore's smile in return.

The human slumped at the shoulders and dragged a small seat over from an empty table.

* * *

The second round of drinks weren't free, but they were cheap enough that the group agreed to stay for lunch. Bonnie covered the expense for Vex and jokingly declared it was costing her, if not an arm and a leg, then at least an arm. Vex said physician wages were shit on the surface, but that she'd drink to that anyway, a toast everyone joined in on.

Mercifully for everyone's noses, the tavern didn't have fermented milk, so it was the unfermented kind filling Batugei's tankard as he clinked it against everyone else's.

They were only halfway through the meal when a hob walked in and ruined the mood.

The hob had dark brown stripes covering brindle fur, like Creation's haughtiest tiger walking upright. His ears were rounded and had that animal-like quality of being able to swivel about to better pick up sound. His face was dominated by a broad, flat nose under amber eyes, and he wore a bored expression. A head shorter than Batugei, he didn't look any stronger than, say, the humans, but the way he held himself told Bonnie that he knew how to fight.

His lamellar armor was made of lacquered leather, and the ararebo at his hip was bronze-tipped wood, which meant he was some land-owner's enforcer. No one could use iron in the Khanate unless they were part of the Khan's soldiery; even a daimyo's guards had to make do with wood, leather, and bronze.

Face remaining impassive, the hob did something wiggly with his hands as he said, "私の領主は、オシアの奴隷が去ることはできないと命じています。"

Bonnie couldn't make heads or tails of it, but the settlers could because several of them recoiled like they'd been slapped.

"He said his lord wasn't letting the 'Ossia' slaves leave town," murmured Vex.

"Ossia?" asked Bonnie, eyes roving the other patrons rather than turning to the shobo.

"That's how a hob would say O'Shea," explained Deag. "Some of the family names don't take well to Shitagau."

Batugei's expression was controlled and observant. Betha looked apprehensive and a little confused. Eithne's eyes were narrowed and her hands were clenching and unclenching into fists.

"We have to go," pleaded one of the settlers, rising to her feet. "We- We can't not!" A beat later she offered a modest bow toward the hob and muttered something in Shitagau.

"Yeah," called a settler lad. "We don't get a say. When Fan and Téigh take a steader by the hands, we're a settler until the twins let us go."

This brought nodding heads and murmurs of agreement from the crowd of settlers.

If there was an ounce of sympathy in the hob, Bonnie sure as hells couldn't see it as he said, "あなたの一部は奴隷です。奴隷は彼らが仕える主の近くにとどまります。"

"He said they have to stay, didn't he?" asked Eithne in a clipped voice. When Deag and Vex nodded in answer, the pale wanderer stood up from her seat and strode toward the hob, jaw clenched and chin thrust out in defiance.

"Hoo boy," murmured Bonnie in a soft but faintly excited voice. One hand drifted down to touch the grip of the bronze dagger hanging off her hip.

"To force a settler to remain shackled to their home stead is a death sentence," intoned Eithne, her head angled up so she was staring the hob square in the eyes.

The tavern had grown dead quiet.

"But it's worse than that," she continued. "Because you're also denying the halfling people their future."

"来る," said the hob, a short command which caused the four humans to rise to their feet — though one had to struggle to stand up from the too-short chair he'd been sitting in.

Bonnie noticed when they'd entered that they were all wearing similar clothing, but she'd thought they were guildsmen. Now that she knew to look, she saw the similarities between their garb and the hob's. All wore a daimyo's livery; all had weapons hanging from their belts.

"This isn't your business, merchant," said the tallest human as he led the group towards the hob.

Eithne didn't budge, didn't break eye contact with the hob. "You hobs won't be happy until you've smothered the destiny of the halfling people, yoked us like oxen so there can never be another Tír Tairngire to rival your Khanate. But the Threshers' Revolt proved we aren't meek cattle. And the grand spiralist migration taking place now? That is a rising tide that you cannot hold back lest you be swept aside!" Her voice had grown to a zealous declaration by the end like a priest bellowing for divine retribution.

 _Nope. There won't be any walking that back,_ thought Bonnie, springing up so she was standing in her seat.

She'd thought the hob was reaching for his weapon but instead he delivered a back-handed slap to Eithne that sent the pale spiralist sprawling across the floor. The quiet tavern resonated with the sound of the blow.

"I'll kick human ass if you'll take the cherry-eater," Bonnie murmured to Batugei.

"As you say," responded the orc.

And like that, Bonnie launched herself forward, hopping from table to table as she sprinted toward the cluster of humans, her ostentatious ponytail streaming behind her.

The leftmost human had short-cropped brown hair and had drawn a truncheon. The tall one that had told Eithne to back off was next, wearing a crisp, two-color tabard and reaching for a bronze-headed mace. The third human had a shaggy mane of black hair that blended into the mustache and beard covering much of his face. He wore a truncheon at his hip, but Bonnie could see his fingers edging toward the handle of a knife. The rightmost human was the shortest and youngest. He must have been a messy eater given the stains both new and old on his tabard. He had started to reach for a club, but had gotten distracted at the sight of Bonnie hurtling at them regardless of the intervening furniture.

While crossing the settler tables, Bonnie hooked her boot under a bowl of hot noodles and kicked it up into the face of the left-most human. He had to drop his truncheon to get his arms up in time, and he still screamed like gogs were after him when the hot food hit. The middle pair braced for her next attack, which was why Bonnie instead dove right, hitting the smallest human in the chest and knocking the wind out of him as her momentum drove him to the floor.

His eyes widened with fear as Bonnie snatched up a dagger from her belt, but instead she punched him hard in the throat and said, "Just stay down 'til it's over," a heartbeat before she flung herself off him.

Batugei had taken up a steader-sized chair like a club and advanced on the hob. His big-ass sword would be difficult to swing inside the tavern, hence his choice of weaponry, and the hob was probing his defenses with that ararebo held two-handed.

Bonnie got her dagger up in time to deflect the bearded human's knife strike, though the long blade raked across her fighting leathers as it went. Traditionally, household guards wielded blunt weapons since they were supposed to leave the killing to the magistrate's yoriki or any samurai in the area. But Beardy didn't seem like he was thinking about tradition so much as sticking a knife in Bonnie before she got the chance to do the same to him.

His trousers were just linen so if she could get in close, she'd be able to shank a calf and drop him. But he was quick with that knife of his and had the reach advantage. Switching the dagger to her off-hand, she brought out her bronze daibo blade and decided to give him too many threats to keep track of.

Behind him, the smallest human was still gasping for breath on the floor, the tall one was helping the scalded one, and Batugei's chair was down a leg as his duel with the hob continued.

 _Fuck, that knife's long!_ she mentally swore as Beardy did a good job keeping her on the defensive. Guessing what Bonnie was planning, he'd gotten aggressive, which was smart but really damned annoying of him. She fended off another strike, trying to ready a feint to slip past his guard...when something small seemed to flit across the human. He had to struggle to keep his eyes on Bonnie as he blinked and squinted.

Her opponent distracted, Bonnie parried his knife and scored a thin cut across the knuckles of his hand. This prompted a shout, and the blade dropped to the floor, which was exactly when she bulled forward and ventilated some of his leg muscles. Beardy cried out and collapsed to the floor with blood staining one trouser leg. If he'd been the one to bitch slap Eithne, she'd have severed a tendon instead, but for this asshole, she'd stick to flesh wounds.

Looking over, Bonnie saw Vex still at their table, holding a piece of polished bronze she'd taken from that tool belt of hers. The shobo was using it to catch the light and shine it back into the humans' faces. She flashed Bonnie an ugly smile as she turned the bright dot on the hob.

The small human, wheezing, had started to rise when Bonnie jogged over, sheathing a knife long enough to gift him another punch to the throat. "Seriously, stay down before I put you down," she hissed.

A glance showed that Eithne had recovered from her hit and scurried back, Deag helping her up to her seat so he could look at the angry mark on the right side of her face.

There was a 'KYA!' from the hob followed by a blow that smashed Batugei's chair into flinders. The orc, however, grabbed the ararebo that still had bits of the former seat dangling from it and started to fight the hob for the weapon. The hob's movements were all practiced efficiency, but Batugei had size and raw strength on his side, so the contest was an uncertain one.

The tall human with the mace and the scalded one with the truncheon turned to face Bonnie. Rather than charge them, she instead hopped up so she was standing on a windowsill. There was no glass in the frame —only the wealthy could afford glass in place of shutters— and Bonnie grabbed the side of the frame with one hand to steady herself.

"There. Now I won't have to stab you in the dick like I did your friend," she said, and shrugged in the direction of Beardy.

Given all the blood on his pants, it'd be hard for them to know she was exaggerating.

The scalded human was hesitant to advance, and spared a glance towards the taller one with the mace. Just as the tall one looked like he was about to move in, Bonnie flipped the dagger in her hand over so she was holding it blade-first between thumb and forefinger. The humans eyed her warily before she grinned chipperly and shouted, "Catch!"

Impressively, the tall one managed to bat her blade out of the air with his mace. However, it left him and his scalded partner distracted while Bonnie leapt up and grabbed hold of the decorative netting that hung overhead. It held for a heartbeat, Bonnie swinging forward and then back from her momentum, and for the span of that heartbeat she thought, _If this doesn't drop, I'm going to look_ REALLY _stupid._ Then there was a ripping sound and a section came free, fully engulfing the tall human and tangling up the scalded one's weapon.

The surprise delay meant Bonnie landed a little awkwardly, bouncing back and hitting her shoulder against the window frame she'd just leapt from. However, both the humans were entangled and struggling, and that was as good as a written invitation for Bonnie's assault.

The scalded human had been looking to the tall one for guidance, so she suspected that if his boss suddenly developed an intense bronze allergy, he'd lose his nerve and flee. Which was why Bonnie pounced atop the netted leader with an excited cry and started slashing him up with that daibo blade of hers. The wounds weren’t fatal, but were certainly painful enough to make him regret recent life choices.

Bonnie was cackling as she slashed the struggling human across his cheek and brow so the blood would get into his eyes. Then she heard an angry voice shout, "Get off him!" as a large hand grabbed her ostentatious ponytail and yanked.

For an eyeblink, Bonnie's head was wrenched back. Then Bonnie felt something rip free, which left her scalp tingling.

And then the scalded human started screaming in agony as blood welled up between the fingers of his fistful of blonde hair.

"Grab the big, obvious ponytail," growled Bonnie, swearing in the space of her thoughts as her scalp stung where the knot had pulled free. "Gee, no one's ever thought of doing _that_ before." She rounded on the screaming human, determined to extract a bit of payback for stinging at the top of her head.

Long ago, Bonnie had come to Anlon with a very specific request. Anlon had taken a length of stiff wire and twisted short, jagged v-shaped bits of metal along its length, all pointing upward. Bonnie had paid a wig-maker to make a long but narrow cover of blonde hair to obscure the trap. When she suspected the day would hold trouble or the kind of excitement that might transform into the same, she'd attach the big, bushy ponytail to her hair. Because wearing a showy, easy-to-grab ponytail was stupid in a fight, especially for a halfling fighting the taller races, and every jackass trying to catch Bonnie unawares went for it thinking they were some kind of cunning genius.

Using his free hand, the scalded human wrenched his closed hand open, and the bloody, blonde booby trap dropped to the floor. Bonnie kicked him in the knee and then watched him topple like a sack of manure. A few quick cuts meant he wouldn't be walking out of the tavern unless someone carried him. She grabbed him by the hair and bounced his head against the floor a time or two in revenge for her scalp, cut his coin purse free, gathered up her ponytail, and considered the job well done.

A few feet away, the hob slammed into the bar, sliding down to the floor unconscious.

"About time," taunted Bonnie, as Batugei strolled over with the hob's ararebo in his grip.

He tossed the weapon casually to the floor, his tongue running across a spot where it looked like he'd taken a punch to the left side of his mouth. "I downed a hippo while you boast of beheading chickens," was his retort.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. Loudly.

"And you left one still struggling," he chided.

The tall human, feigning surrender, had managed to wriggle out from under the net entrapping him while Bonnie had dealt with his scalded, screaming buddy. There was blood in his eyes and running across one cheek, but he'd pulled a dagger from his belt.

Batugei seized the human, slamming his hand against the wall until the dagger dropped from stunned fingers. Then he delivered a haymaker that made Bonnie flinch in sympathy. A spray of spittle and blood flew out as the human landed in a battered heap only a few feet away from his unconscious, striped superior.

The pained moans and gasps of the humans notwithstanding, there was a moment of silence. Then the settlers gave a great exclamation of victory, dozens of voices filling the air with excited noise and praise.

Eithne was still being tended to by Deag when she was swept off her feet by the crowd. The side of her face was red and starting to swell, but that didn't stop her from smiling. Bonnie had been in the process of swiping the purses off the downed combatants when she was picked up as well, but she gave a pleased shout after she shoved the purloined coin into a pouch on her hip. As Batugei was both heavier and less interested in the post-victory activities that were likely to follow, he was instead thanked in a dozen voices, gabbled praise and esteem washing over him.

* * *

The mob filed out, the volume level in the tavern dropping precipitously as they did.

Deaglán smiled after them, then turned and gave a forlorn look at the plate of food in front of him that had been splashed with blood and spittle when the tall human had been sent flying. There was even a tooth visible atop what had once been a very tasty salad drizzled with vinegar.

Batugei, Vex, Betha, and he would need to be leaving shortly regardless, but the sight of a good meal wasted pained Deaglán on an almost spiritual level.

"Are you going to eat that?" asked Vex, pocketing her piece of reflective bronze and gesturing to the plate.

Deaglán pulled a face and shook his head, nudging the meal in the shobo's direction.

With long fingers, Vex plucked up the tooth and tossed it into the back of her mouth. She swallowed and gave a languid grin of contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _that's_ what the ponytail is for.
> 
> I use Japanese for the hobs' language spoken to non-hobs (i.e. Shitagau). The usual translation software caveats apply. If there's anyone reading this who is able and willing to offer better translations, lemme know in the comments or the Discord.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	18. Breeding Resentment (Batugei's Past)

> _The way I see it, everyone has been an asshole to everyone else at some point or another. I mean, if my ancestors never tried to murder yours, it’s only because it was too long of a walk. No doubt yours were busy with their own genocides anyway._
> 
> _If you’re the optimistic sort, you can take this as, not so much a clean slate as one so chipped and caked with old blood that you throw it away entirely. Just shake hands, keep the really nasty observations for when the other guy’s out of earshot, and move on with your life._
> 
> _Or you can be like me and preemptively loathe everyone. It means I’m the same misanthrope as every other asshole out there, but unlike them, I've studied enough to know it’s justified._

\- 'Friendly' Walid Rahmani, historian

* * *

Some asked Batugei if he would take the elephant he'd raided from the Hatagins for his favored animal. An orc's favored animal, by choice and by necessity, would change several times during his life, after all.

After some thought his response to the questions was 'no.' While an elephant steed would be most impressive, he would have to raid and go on mercenary work constantly to keep it healthy and decorated as a favored animal was meant to be kept. That wasn't the life he wanted, and besides, he was fond of Sudal.

Nearly every male in the village considered taking the elephant for himself, but none that could credibly lay claim to it did, and for much the same reason. Which was why, when the time for the winter migration came, the bull was driven at the front of their livestock so the Daguur herd could flaunt their wealth and good fortune.

All save the oldest and the ill (and the sho-bakemonos) packed up their yurts for the migration. For the livestock, the reverse was true, with the old and feeble led on for the culling that was to come.

There was only so much grass and so much feed to be had during the winter. It was reserved for the young and valuable.

After many days of travel, the herds converged at the Four River Fortress, built by an orcish ruler beyond memory and one of the only true cities their race had bothered to raise.

There was a great mingling between the disparate orc herds, distant brothers and cousins reuniting. A woman stayed with her herd, but men could migrate, be captured, or be bought. Tales were told, boasts made, alliances strengthened, grievances aired, favored animals performed or competed, all while the curdled milk was passed freely about.

On the third day the men began to sweat, the liquid thick with scent. They grew bold, aggressive, and show fights broke out, especially where there were women watching. That was the signal for the great cull to begin, animals slaughtered in the hundreds, the entire night spent feasting on meat and blood.

As the horizon birthed the sun on the fourth day the women became fertile, growing as bold or bolder than even the males, and the mating season began in earnest. It continued for four days, as did the nightly feasts.

A male, if allowed to gorge on meat for a month, could transform into a bayatur and become as mighty to other orcs as orcs were to the other races. During a mating season, a male could achieve the same in a matter of days.

Batugei towered over Radnatani, his frame expanded half-again in every direction. Prominent tusks jutted out from his lower jaw where none had been a week prior. He felt ravenous, for meat, for mating, for violence, for life, as did the mass of orcs that stretched out in every direction around him.

A horn sounded, long and loud. Buqa, who felt the transformation more than most and stood a full head higher than even Batugei, bellowed his excitement in response. Berkedai, Batugei, and the others of their herd picked up the call. Other herds joined and for a moment a thousand throats drowned out all else.

The war-priestess emerged, standing atop the elephant bull the Daguur herd had brought. Radnatani preened: she would be able to boast of this for years to come.

Enhanced by her god's power, the priestess’ voice was like a thunderclap stretched into words. "Orcs! Bayaturs! I have been gifted with a vision, a target we will raid that will make us powerful beyond compare!"

The throng roared back, their excitement growing into a frenzy.

"The dwarves buy the goods of our people with an endless appetite but offer only scraps in return. They hide in their burrows like meerkats, but they hoard everything, the crafts of your fathers and your father's fathers buried beneath the earth."

Batugei felt outrage sweep through him, a bayatur's temperament fertile grazing for it even without the priestess' exhortations.

"And piled high beside the toil of our people is bronze!"

The bayaturs roared.

"Iron!"

Even the women joined in the shout.

"Steel!"

There was no orc, no person of any race, that didn't covet the dwarves' miraculous metal. The hobs had stolen the secret of iron-working from the dwarves and carved for themselves an empire larger than any known. If any could claim the secret of steel for themselves, they would no doubt be greater still.

"We will ride on the dwarves! We will dig them out of their burrows and we will plunder their nests! Then we will be powerful enough to claim the herds and lives of any we wish!"

Batugei rocked on his feet, his mind reeling. It was unheard of, an idea that could only be the result of divine inspiration. Everyone knew dwarves were the sort of prey that cost you greatly for too little meat. Their flesh became stone, their merchants traveled armed, and they had little true wealth, only coin and crafts.

But now, blood pumping through his mighty frame, Batugei wanted nothing more than to be the first to descend on this novel prey.

A group of orcs was called a herd. When the herds gathered, they became a horde.

The answering roar of the horde was loud beyond hearing.

* * *

Sudal was laden with supplies, as was every other mount available. There would be hunting and foraging on the way to the dwarven hold, but not enough for an army of bayaturs.

In time few of them would be bayaturs still, the change lasting only a week unless the orcs continued to feast. But many would fall in the assault and that would mean fewer with which to share the meat: victory or starvation awaited orcs when they marched to war.

The elephant was buried under supplies and, when those ran out, it would be butchered for more.

Batugei mounted Sudal and rode over to where Radnatani and the other women were departing. They would return to the village, many of them pregnant with litters. They would look after the herds while the males were at war. Most whelped three in a litter, and boys were twice as common as girls. Males were expendable where the women were not; it was the way of things.

"Be well, Radnatani." Batugei tried to flash her a grin though the tusks made it difficult. "I will see you in a season."

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness there. "Be brave, Batugei. Bring me a rhino when you come."

"With dwarven steel— I mean, I could steal you one with—" He shook his head. There was a joke there with 'steel' and 'steal' but it was hard to think of such things like this. "I'll try," he said instead.

He waved and, with his knees, he directed Sudal south-east to join the horde.

* * *

Somehow, impossibly, the dwarves had been prepared. Fortifications were in place, soldiers ready at narrow places where the warriors could only attack in ones and twos, and the whole assault devolved into a siege.

Orcs could not win a siege.

With tools stolen from captured miners, the bayaturs tore stone from stone and collapsed walls and tunnels both. The orcs would either drive the dwarves from hiding or dig their spoils out of the rubble that was once the dwarven hold.

The dwarven host emerged, armed and armored, and the war-priestess led the horde in a charge.

Berkedai was slain. Buqa lost Khargis, his western hand, and earned a host of additional scars. Batugei, more cunning than most, led his warband into a flank that captured more dwarves than he could easily count, numbers being especially hard for a bayatur.

By the time he'd secured his captives, the battle was over, the priestess slain, the orcs retreating.

Two-in-five survived and only one-in-five was unmaimed.

There was meat aplenty to see them home.

A dwarven priest, an ollam, joined the captives willingly. Everyone knew a dwarf without their priest would wither and die. The ollam would sustain the captives until they could be ransomed back.

It was part of the long march back to the village when the ollam approached Batugei. "[You're the one in charge, right?]" he asked, speaking in Caint, the language of trade and the only one shared between them.

The orc was allowing his transformation to fade, his wits returning bit-by-bit even as his muscles shrank. His skin hung loose in places where it had previously been stretched over a much larger frame. It would revert in time, but it left his clothes ill-fitting and, he suspected, his features looking melted.

"[I am,]" he said, though it came out as something like, 'Hi em,' the words awkward since only one of his tusks had fallen out. Buqa walked only a few paces back, his remaining hand near a weapon in case the ollam tried anything sneaky.

Tensions were high between captives and captors.

The ollam ignored the escort. "[If we don't stop for at least two days, five dwarves will lose arms or legs. I need to shape the stone before permanent damage sets in.]"

Batugei gestured over his shoulder. "[Can you fix Buqa's hand while you're at it?]"

The dwarf looked back and then scowled at Batugei, his expression answer enough.

"[If he can lose his hand and not complain then the captives can do the same.]"

The ollam had to jog slightly to keep pace, thick dwarven legs struggling to match the longer orcish stride. After a minute of silence he said, "[Tin. It helps with the wounds and should forestall some of the worst damage.]"

Batugei let the quiet stretch out. It was a tactic he used with merchants sometimes, letting them be the first to name a price.

The ollam glanced over his shoulder again then said, "[I can't replace the hand, but I have some magics that should help the remains heal without infection. It would probably reduce the pain as well.]"

Batugei raised an eyebrow on his droopy face. "[You would treat my men for tin?]"

The ollam nodded once, mouth a thin line beneath his facial hair.

Batugei slowed to a pace that was more natural for the priest and he mustered a toothy smile. "[Sudal will be cross with me afterwards, but you have a deal.]" He held out his hand and the ollam, eyeing it for a long moment, shook.

Batugei whistled for Sudal and, a moment later, began cutting free some of decorated strands of zebra hair, colorful metal beads catching the light.

* * *

Orcs could see at dusk but not in darkness like the dwarves. All rested after dark save for the sentries keeping an eye on the captives. Batugei was roasting an antelope haunch over a fire a stone's throw from the ollam, the latter muttering over bits of metal coated in dwarf blood.

They were a strange people, dwarves.

"[Hungry?]" asked the orc.

This was the fourth time he'd interrupted the priest while he'd been doing... something. The ollam muttered a phrase that was most definitely not a spell and then set his bloody metal aside. He sat down south-west of Batugei. "[Sure. Plenty of iron in the meat, if nothing else.]"

Batugei cut a piece free, skewered it on a stick, and handed it over, then did the same for himself. One hand continued to slowly rotate the haunch over the fire while he ate.

After a few minutes of quiet, the orc asked, "[How did you know we were coming?]"

The dwarf tried to fish a piece of gristle from his beard, then faced the orc. "[Eh?]"

"[The horde. It was a surprise, a raid none had ever thought of before. The orcs have always been at peace with the dwarves, a few scuffles with merchants aside. Yet your people were ready.]" Batugei tore a strip of meat free from the stick, sharp teeth shredding it before swallowing. "[How?]"

The ollam shook his head like an ancient male of fifty tutting at the folly and boasts of the fifteen-year-olds. "[You really don't know, do you?]" he said eventually.

Batugei, completely deadpan, replied, "[I do. But your voice is so lovely, I asked so I could listen to you say it.]"

The ollam goggled at him for a moment before a coughing sound emerged. It took Batugei a heartbeat to recognize it as laughter.

"[We dwarves must seem awfully sour to you, don't we?]"

"[Your merchants treat us like a knife in the gut is as likely as payment,]" answered Batugei casually. The sizzle of the meat reminded him to turn the spit. "[Earns them few friends.]"

There was that coughing sound again. Then the priest drew himself up... as much as a dwarf could, anyway. "[I am an ollam, a keeper of dwarven histories. Know that I speak the truth.]” He paused and Batugei nodded, willing to hear him out.

“[One thousand, six hundred, and— six hundred and— We use different numbers than the halflings so this makes this difficult.]" He shook his head. "[One thousand, six hundred, and thirty years ago, roughly, the orcs of the Great Savanna invaded the dwarves.]"

Batugei realized his mouth had dropped and he closed it, poking himself with his remaining tusk in the process. He winced and tried to will the unwieldy tooth off his face all the faster, then said, "[So long ago no one remembers, the orcs and the dwarves fought, and you have been on guard ever—]"

The ollam interrupted him. "[One thousand, three hundred and five years ago, roughly, the orcs of the Great Savanna invaded the dwarves.]"

Batugei rolled his eyes. "[Oh, well, since it was practically yesterday, I—]"

As if the orc hadn't spoken, the ollam continued. "[Another invasion came nine hundred and ninety-four years ago. Another, six hundred and fifty-two years ago. Another, three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. Every three centuries you invade, give or take a few decades.]" He shifted in his seat, the firelight reflecting off the holy symbol that hung from his neck. "[This one came more than seven decades later than usual; we were starting to get impatient,]" the ollam said, his voice laced with humor that was as dry as sun-bleached bone.

The meat was sizzling again, but this was bigger than burnt antelope. Batugei ignored it as he stared at the dwarf for long minutes. Eventually he muttered, "[But why—]"

"[Don't ask me! They're your gods!]" bellowed the ollam, so loud and sudden that several of the other sentries looked over, weapons catching the firelight.

Batugei waved them back to their posts.

Still agitated, the dwarf rose, head shaking like a bull attempting to ward off flies. "[There are dwarves alive who saw the invasion three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. They tell the stories, they show the scars, and they point out where the masonry has been rebuilt. There are names in the shrines, names known to still-living dwarves, of those who died at the hands of your people three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. And though no elders live that saw the invasion six hundred and fifty-two years ago, or the one nine hundred and ninety-four years ago, the histories carved into the bones of the earth remember, and so too do the dwarves. You think us sour because we treat you as dangerous when all you wish to do is barter. But every dwarf that lives near the Great Savanna knows that one day, likely within our lifetime, we will see these friendly herdsmen descend on us en masse: to sunder our hold, plunder our vaults, and slaughter us to the last!]"

The ollam whipped his head around and spat, the fire sizzling in response. "[The dwarves and the orcs have been at war for more than a thousand years.]" His hands closed into fists. "[That only we recall is your race's failing, not ours.]"

The ollam stormed off, going beyond the edge of the firelight. One of the sentries looked to Batugei for guidance. He waved to allow the priest to pass.

It's not as though the ollam would escape and leave his fellow dwarves to wither.

* * *

"I ask you to bring me a rhino and you return with a host of dwarves?"

Radnatani's face was a mix of warmth and skepticism.

Batugei's expression was sallow, his eyes lacking their usual mischievous spark. But he found a smile from somewhere, the gaps where his tusks used to be visible as he grinned. "I'm sorry. I did not realize before, but it is the season for dwarf-hunting and, sadly, not rhino-hunting."

The head woman eyed the assorted captives. They would fetch a high ransom... in time. But they'd need to be housed, fed, and cared for in the meanwhile. One more chore for her women to deal with.

Still, Batugei had done well and, though she'd be loath to admit it, Radnatani had felt his absence. She took his hand to lead him toward her yurt.

Batugei smiled another sallow smile, raised her hand, and gave it a kiss. "I'm sorry, but the raid has left Sudal weary. If I don't tend to him, he is liable to piss in my yurt and run off in spite."

A glance showed Sudal cavorting with the other zebras. Radnatani raised an eyebrow but allowed the obvious lie to go unchallenged. "Very well. Tend to your zebra. I have dwarves to feed now."

She was going to start organizing things when she smiled and turned east toward Batugei. "If I milk them, do you think iron will fill the bucket?" she quipped.

Batugei, ever joking and quick with words, didn't hear or pretended not to as he walked in the direction of his zebra. His shoulders were slumped and his head, low.

Radnatani had raised enough beasts to recognize when one had been broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the mating seasons, the orcs have a tendency to conduct seasonal invasions, ones the other races have learned brace for. That was certainly known to and accepted by Batugei. But that his people would cyclically attempt genocide against the dwarves _and didn't even know about it_ has really shaken the guy up.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	19. Crossing Over

> _I assure you, most honorable samurai, the size of the mustache I was wearing at the time was an expression of just how much I respect the most honorable magistrate._
> 
> _Why was I also singing a song entitled, ‘Come Sit on the Magistrate’s Lap for an Honorable Discharge?’ I have a very good explanation for that, written down on a piece of parchment over by the exit. Let me just go over there and get that for you._

\- Last words of Fiach Cleary, wandering musician and satirist

* * *

Batugei crouched low with a hoof pick in his north hand, removing the caked-on dirt from beneath Sudal's hooves. He had chosen this spot to work from because it was far enough back that Sudal and he weren't being crowded, but close enough that he could overhear the ongoing debate.

"We're not stopping at Duncrana," declared Shona. "That'd take us north, and we're heading due east."

It was tradition among the nomads to discuss the caravan's route and destination over breakfast. The meal was porridge, so not for Batugei's stomach, but the nomad penchant for large breakfasts confused him. It was known that a large breakfast brought lethargy and dull senses, which was why Batugei broke his fast with milk and eggs if they were available, or cheese if they weren't. That plus a light lunch of cheese and jerky would see him alert throughout the day. At least the nomads were sensible about concluding the day with a great and hearty meal.

"Yeah, it's a hook in the trail," said Tiarnán, scratching the skin below the eye patch covering his east eye. "But then we'd have Duncrana, Tirr, and Cloghershed all in a line going east."

Rumor was that the settlers of Nallow had tried hard to persuade the one-eyed wheel-maker into joining their convoy. Shona had met with him privately, and he'd stayed as a result, leaving Nallow with the rest of the caravan the evening after the fight in the Lost Trireme. However, he'd since been more prone to speaking up where others would hear.

In Batugei's estimation, he was a cocksure youth drunk on recent acclaim, and that Shona would socially geld him soon enough.

Deaglán of Barlow stood up to speak. "It's been ages since we were in Cloghershed. It's the right time of year for the vintners there to begin selling off the latest vintage," he said hopefully before stepping close to the campfire and ladling more steaming porridge into his bowl.

This brought some murmurs of approval from the nomads, who would no doubt pool their wealth to purchase a barrel of wine for their own consumption.

Shona turned to the west and spat out the wad of her chewing tobacco beyond the circle of nomads. "And that's part of the reason we're not going north to Duncrana: there's too many stops along the way. We're needed east. No dallying."

As master of the caravan, Shona had the final say, but if she went against the preferences of the many, morale within the caravan would sink and she could find her subordinates chafing against the yoke of her authority.

Deaglán hung his head low. "I'd hoped to see my Abban and Crónán again," he lamented.

Shona gave Deaglán an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Deaglán. If it weren't for the rush, I'd be fine with the detour."

The hoof pick had a wooden handle with a copper pick on one side and a horse hair brush on the other. With the bottom of Sudal's hooves clear of debris and filth, Batugei flipped the tool around to the brush side and started cleaning the hooves themselves. Hearing Deaglán's distress, Batugei didn't need to look west to know which nomad was rising to her feet to speak next.

"Is the Father of Stone's snack bag of gold and silver waiting for us out east?" challenged Bonnie. "Because there's not a stead due east that I know of. It's nothing but hob towns and farming villages 'til Supanku and the Flesh Wastes."

Shona pulled a fresh wad of tobacco from a pouch and popped it in her mouth. She chewed a time or two while holding Bonnie's gaze. Finally having established that she wouldn't rush, the caravan master said, "We're contracted to be in Kusatsu."

This brought murmurs from the circle of nomads. Kusatsu was deeper within the Khanate than the caravan traditionally traveled. A contract from there could only be with hobs.

"Why in Máthair Mhór's name are we going to Kusatsu?!" demanded Bonnie. "The magistrate there is more crooked than Vex's smile—"

From within one of the wagons came, "Du kan spise min røv." Vex had been hunched over her writings all morning, not even bothering to leave long enough to snag a bowl of porridge. Her words were in the dwarven tongue and unfamiliar to Batugei. Though given the speaker, he assumed they were vulgar.

"—And you think some cherry-stinking bastard is going to honor a contract with wanderers?" asked Bonnie, incredulous. "They'd fuck us on the deal for sport, and the magistrate wouldn't need more than two silver to sit back and watch."

"You can shove your lecture about the trustworthiness of hobs straight up your ass, Bonnie!" Shona snapped with uncharacteristic ire in her voice.

To Sudal's annoyance, Batugei paused in his scrubbing to look west. Bonnie and Shona bickered frequently, but the conflict rarely managed to reach a personal depth for the caravan master. To the south, Batugei saw a gap appear in the wagon's canvas cover. Vex's furry face peered through it. The shobo had caught the same scent of drama he had.

There were more murmurs from nomads. The phrase 'Threshers' Revolt' repeated, and even Bonnie seemed to realise she'd saddled an argument she couldn't ride.

"Who's the contract with?" asked the blonde warrior, her tone less acerbic.

"The dwarves," answered Shona, and there were noises of surprise from the group. "They've been negotiating with a local hob for more than a decade over the price of ransom for six captives. Apparently they managed to nail down a price, and now they're eager to finish the deal and get the hells out of the Khanate."

"The pay?" asked Eimear.

Batugei had known little of that nomad until shortly after they left Hirata. Apparently word of Bonnie and Batugei's sacrifice to the local spirits had spread, which was how Batugei found himself sought out by Eimear, the tiny woman asking if he could show her, 'That orc magic you showed Bonnie.' He had walked her through the rite that evening after the caravan was encamped, but it'd been clear that she was more interested in the flames than the spirits they were appeasing.

Turning to spit tobacco juice, Shona said wryly, "If you'd spent more than ten years dickering with hobs, would you cheap out on the ride home?"

This brought some chuckles from the group until Dana quipped, "Then why'd they hire us?" That drew open laughter from the gathering, Shona included.

"Because all the other caravans are hauling settlers around," observed one of the nomads, Batugei wasn't sure who.

Irked at his rider paying attention to the conversation instead of his hooves, Sudal lowered his head and insistently nudged Batugei's shoulder. The orc turned east briefly and gave his mount an affectionate pat, running his hand across the zebra's neck. However, this talk of dwarves had Batugei's interest by the reins, and he soon turned back to the west.

"You're sure of this contract?" asked Eithne. Her cheek was healing well, but the vestige of the slap still stood out against her pale skin. As Batugei recalled, there'd been a talk in private between her and Shona, same as Tiarnán, though Eithne hadn't overfed her ego like the wheel-maker had his. "There's a lot of good we could be doing during the settlers' mustering; a lot of pay we could be earning from honest halflings instead of crooked hobs or distant dwarves."

"They're serious," countered Shona. "The pay is serious too. I got proof of both when they sent an official writ of passage to me in Dahir through carrow courier."

And that was the end of the debate as far as the majority were concerned. Carrows did not fly at the behest of others cheaply, and only a great deal of wealth or influence could goad a magistrate into extending a writ of passage to a distant caravan of nomads.

Deaglán gathered up porridge bowls from others and began walking in the direction of a nearby stream to rinse them out. He paused beside the wagon Vex was lurking within and said, "You knew about this, didn't you? That's why you wanted to know about the carrow roost in the temple."

"Yeah," was her answer. A heartbeat later she added, "What of it?"

Batugei finally returned his attention to grooming his favored animal, but he kept an ear open while he made sure Sudal remained the envy of zebras everywhere.

"Why didn't you tell any of us?" pressed Deaglán. "Shona likes to hold her cards close since plans and destinations can change, but we were all wondering about it back in Nallow. Remember, when we were walking back from the tavern after the brawl?"

"Yeah, I didn't forget, dingus," and Batugei glanced back to see Vex peering once more through an opening in the canvas cover. "And I know a test of secrecy when I see one."

That last part the shobo had said in a voice meant to carry. Batugei turned west and caught a glimpse of Shona with a smirk on her face as she sat to finish her breakfast.

A little time passed and Batugei chewed on both thoughts and cheese as he looked over Sudal for small cuts, signs of chafing, or evidence of parasites. Sudal was an excellent beast and he showed it, much to Batugei's pleasure. The nomads may pay little attention to such things, but there were orcs in the Khanate, and Batugei would sooner chew grass than be seen to have neglected his favored animal.

He ended the grooming session with a treat of salt-laced millet for Sudal, the zebra clearing it from Batugei's palm with amusing urgency. With a final pat against the neck, the orc turned and strode with purpose in Shona's direction. The crowd of nomads milling about parted to give him room.

Shona lifted the spoon of porridge to her mouth and gave Batugei a questioning look.

"The caravan is short a horse," said Batugei.

The red-haired caravan master swallowed. "It is," she agreed casually, her tone inviting him to make his point.

"We would make a better impression with the dwarves with twelve draft animals." A breeze across the stubble on his face reminded him that he could stand for some grooming as well. Sudal was tended to daily, but Batugei spent much less time on himself, especially without Radnatani and her sisters around to flirt with. "And dwarves are heavy."

The extent of that fact had surprised Batugei when he'd first learned it. Even as a bayatur, Batugei had felt the mass behind the blows when he'd first fought a dwarf. And charging a line of their warriors had been like charging a row of boulders.

"You're not wrong, but there weren't any horses to be had in Nallow." Shona took another bite of porridge. "I had to rebuff near a half-dozen offers to buy up some of our animals. And like I told the others, we're not going to take detours. It'd only take a few days of bad weather or some other delay and we'd arrive late of contract. There's fines for that." A beat. "From the hobs _and_ the dwarves."

Batugei nodded. "I understand. But what if I rode ahead and purchased an animal myself?"

Setting her breakfast aside, she gave him a studying look. "I wouldn't have to worry about you buying a half-lame nag."

Batugei flashed her a carnivore's smile. "No trader is foolish enough to try and cheat an orc with inferior beasts."

Shona gave an agreeing tilt of her head but then her mouth drew into a frown. "You'd need coin to buy a horse on the go like that. Most of what we get for the caravan is acquired through barter."

Sensing the objection that was coming, Batugei raised a hand to interject. "I wish to buy animals for myself, actually. I came with coin of my own, and have spent little of what I have earned along the way."

"Is that so?" asked Shona, a single eyebrow raising at the implicit question to follow.

"Coins are shallow wealth, and I would like to trade it for something truer," said Batugei. "And if a man is wealthy, it is right for women to manage that wealth for him." Leaning forward, he said with a hint of conspiratorial amusement, "Also, I think Sudal would not like it if he saw me brushing another horse. Jealousy rides high with zebras."

Shona's eyes twinkled at the joke but her expression remained calculating. "So you'd be leasing this horse to the caravan." It wasn’t a question but it still invited answers.

Batugei nodded. "Your beasts are well cared for. I have never seen them overworked nor treated harshly. I would be satisfied leasing my wealth to you," he said, adding a heartbeat later with a helpless smile, "assuming the spirits of luck allow me to find animals worth trading for."

"What would the terms of the lease be?" she asked, waving absentmindedly with her north hand to ward off a fly.

"One additional horse when I depart for every horse I loan you." The answer sprang quickly from Batugei's lips.

Shona was equally quick to reply. "If the lease is long enough, we can both walk out of this better off than we started. But under that term, you could steal a horse out from under me with a week-long lease." She took a mouthful of food and swallowed. "I don't like that."

Batugei gave a friendly nod in response. "You may take the difference from my pay if you come up short when the time comes. I don't anticipate leaving anytime soon, and I'd sooner have my pay in true wealth than shallow."

The caravan master was quiet for a long moment. "Okay," she said eventually. "There should be a hob inspection once we reach the neighboring province. After that, you can head out and buy your horse. I'll even give you an advance on your pay if you think you'll need it. A _small_ advance," she clarified.

Batugei grinned and he offered his hand. She gripped it by the palm instead of the elbow as an orc would have, but the bargain was struck nonetheless.

"Oh, and take Bonnie with you when you go," added Shona. "We're in tame country this deep into the Khanate and she becomes a right pain the ass when she's got a long haul with too little excitement ahead of her."

Batugei was on the cusp of agreeing when another idea cantered across the pasture of his thoughts. He had to suppress a sly smile before he gave too much away before a shrewd woman. "Very well, provided you won't miss your caravan guards."

She waved his concern aside. "The only thing that'll ambush us out here is a feral shobo or a hob official fishing for a bribe, all of which we can handle on our own."

"Speaking of a shobo, I'd like to borrow your shobo." This time he did grin. "For speaking."

"Pardon?" Shona said in a flat tone.

"I am not good with Shitagau, which I might need this deep into the Khanate," explained Batugei.

"Then take Deaglán. He’s plenty fluent in Shitagau and he's good at getting Bonnie to think twice or, gods, even once before jumping into something knives-out," countered Shona.

Batugei chuckled but shook his head. "This is true. But he is too honest for horse trading; merchants can smell that like funeral birds smell carrion. Then I would return with no horse and Sudal's stripes talked off him because the merchant claimed his family had no belts."

"And what makes you think Vex is any less honorable?" challenged Shona.

A span of three heartbeats passed before they both broke out into laughter. This drew some curious glances from the other nomads who were readying the caravan for departure, but no one stopped to snoop about.

Shona smiled, waving off the fly once more. "Alright, you can take Vex with you, but make sure you bring her back. She's the only one that speaks more than ten words of Løfte, and we're going to need that when we leave Kusatsu nine dwarves heavier."

Batugei's objection had been genuine —Relying on a translator as generous as Deaglán was setting himself up for trouble while trading— but there'd been deeper motives hidden beneath.

He grinned as he stepped away to give the caravan master her space. Though he tempted the spirits to spite him for his enthusiasm, he was excited at what would follow once they were deeper into the Khanate.

* * *

Batugei was treated to a special production when the caravan reached the Burning Highway.

Despite the evocative name, the road was made of paved stone and not open flames or smoldering embers. The start of this highway had once marked the western-most edge of the Khanate. In centuries past, the nomads traveling into the Khanate had developed a ceremony to celebrate the occasion. The tradition remained despite the western border of the Khanate having bulged ever outward like the stomach of an overfed beast.

First, crude flagpoles were erected by Tiarnán on either side of the highway. Then colorful rags were tied to a length of rope, each brushed on one side with pitch. The rope was stretched between the tops of the flagpoles and tied in place, with more pitch brushed onto rope and flagpole both.

This, a grinning Betha told Batugei, was the fabled Iron Gate of Atsusandaro, and that the Khan himself would grant them entry.

Then there was a great clamor and press of bodies surrounding Connor as each nomad drew a tile from the sack held by the caravan's second-in-command. This continued until Dana began hopping in place and shouted, "I got the rat king tile! I'm the Khan! Woo! I'm the Khan!"

With that, Dana was swept away by Deaglán and Shona while the others busied themselves getting the wagons in a single-file line before the 'gate'. Furthermore, the horses were dressed up according to their gender: the mares had a 'kimono' of sack cloth draped across their backs while the geldings each had their manes pulled into a topknot. Finally, a platform consisting of a panel of wood laid across three upright barrels was placed in the middle of the highway, only a few paces ahead of the lead wagon.

Batugei and Vex could only watch from the sidelines as the high-spirited madness unfolded.

"All rise for the most honorable Khan Atsusan-Dana, Lord of Iron, daimyo of daimyos, and shogun of shoguns," declared Deaglán.

Emerging from the wagon she'd been secluded within, Dana surveyed her subjects with imperious disinterest. Black stripes had been painted across her skin and her brown hair was hidden under a brimless black hat topped with a tall, cloth plume. She was wrapped in a too-large robe such that her feet were obscured within the folds. But most conspicuously was the enormous mustache glued to her face. Made of horsehair, it hung from either side of her lips all the way down to where her knees would be were they visible through her voluminous attire.

Deaglán and Bonnie rushed forward holding a chair aloft between them. Dana sat down in the chair with great ceremony, a momentary look of fear breaking her stoic expression when she stumbled on her robes, and Bonnie and Deaglán had to weave and struggle to keep the seat under her.

The others cheered and laughed, applauding when the chair-bearers began to walk unevenly toward the platform.

Mastering her expression, the 'Khan' straightened her robe and brushed the ends of her mustache aside, earning more laughter when one length of horse hair swatted Bonnie in the face. The blonde nomad made a production of trying and failing to blow it out of her face until they reached the platform. Dana was half-raised and half-dumped onto the platform, where she struggled not to trip on her robes once more. Then Bonnie hustled back towards the wagons, but Deaglán remained, crouching low behind the platform so he was largely out of sight.

Dana stretched out her palm and then made a single beckoning gesture before letting it vanish back into the folds of her robes. The Khan tried to keep the expression on her striped face serious, but her ostentatious mustache failed to hide her smile.

Vex was alternating between snark-laced entertainment and abject bemusement. Batugei's grin threatened to make his cheeks ache as he watched the strange ritual proceed.

With a 'hya', Shona drove the lead wagon slowly forward, pulling up alongside the platform. Rising from her seat, the red-haired caravan master bowed to Dana and then presented her with a copper coin with a hole punched through the middle. Dana spent a long moment studying the token before passing it back to Shona and gesturing toward the 'gates' behind her. Shona tucked the coin back into a pocket and then drove the wagon carefully under the faux archway and through, stopping several wagon-lengths down the highway.

The hob coinage was called the ana, and was square with a round hole in the center. The halfling steads, meanwhile, circulated rounded coins called banríons. The coin Shona had presented was a banríon with a hole punched through the middle to make it look like an ana.

Connor drove his wagon through second. He apparently lacked a faux-ana for the Khan, prompting Dana to clap her hands softly together and say, "Underling. Fetch the shears and glue."

Deaglán leapt up from behind the platform and started to do as he was bid when Connor said, "A moment, Khan. Perhaps these credentials will serve instead." Reaching beneath his seat, he pulled forth a small jug of expensive cherry wine.

The Khan considered the offering, took a swig, took a second swig to the laughter of the onlookers, returned the jug, and then made the same gesture of admittance she'd given Shona. From below, Deaglán struggled with a long-handled tool used to punch holes through leather and soft metal. Looking back, Dana crouched, reprimanding Deaglán by ineffectually whipping him with one end of her mustache. "Hurry up, underling."

The crowd howled with laughter, Batugei and Vex included.

Finally Deaglán mastered the tool, puncturing a copper banríon and then passing it up to Connor. He made several officious bows, first to Dana and then to Connor, before hustling back out of sight behind the platform.

Connor drove his vehicle through, having to hop up and guide the rope over the top of his wagon as he did since it rode higher than Shona's. The crude flagpoles wobbled for a moment —a shared gasp from the audience— and then Connor's summer-wood wagon was through with a round of cheers from the relieved onlookers.

Séamus drove the next wagon through, the aged nomad pulling a necklace of punctured banríons out from the neck of his vest. With an expectant and sour look, he glared at Deaglán until the nomad offered him another such coin for his collection. He drove his wagon deftly through.

Apparently none of the other nomads had made the crossing before (nor had cherry wine for a bribe), and so Shona and Deaglán took turns driving the rest of the wagons through the gate, with Deaglán fishing a faux-ana from a pouch for Dana as he drove past. Then all the other nomads filed forward in a line in front of Khan Dana. Deaglán dragged both Batugei and Vex into line as well before hurrying back into place to serve as the Khan's flunky.

"I have no certificate of passage," Bonnie confessed from the front of the line, her voice rich with amusement.

"Only the honorable or the certified may enter my vast khanate," declared Dana, who had to reach up hastily to keep the plume atop her hat from slipping free. "Underling. Bring the shears and glue so this wastrel can be made presentable."

With care, Deaglán used shears to snip a length of Bonnie's hair free. He then dabbed some glue across her upper lip and pressed the hair in place, giving her a lopsided blonde mustache. Bonnie spat and sputtered for a moment —"Fuck, Deag, you got some in my mouth!"— earning a laugh from the others. She was then presented her punctured banríon and waved through by the Khan.

With a final spit, a mustachioed Bonnie crossed through the gate and turned to cheer at the others.

In short order, every remaining nomad was allowed through the gate, hair glued to their lip and a token of their crossing tucked away somewhere on their person.

Using pliers from her toolbelt, Vex folded a banríon in half. She then used a set of small tin snips to cut a triangle of copper free from the creased edge. The shobo straightening the coin back out, there was a neat, square-shaped gap in the coin's center. She held it up to the Khan. 

Dana eyed it skeptically.

Gesturing at her furry upper lip, Vex added, "I've got more honorable facial hair than any three of those fuckers."

With a shrug, the Khan was appeased and joined the others through the gate.

Batugei kept a trim beard but had no mustache. However, he was rather proud —and protective— of his bead-decorated locks which was why he blew a loud whistle when he stepped before Dana, who remained shorter than him even when standing atop her platform. Sudal had spent the ceremony thus far grazing in a nearby field, but he trotted over when called.

Batugei pulled a small knife from a southern pouch and used it to snip a length of hair free from his zebra's tail. "My honor pales before Sudal's. He never sings in public or speaks critically of the Khanate."

This earned a grin from the Khan and then a nod of acceptance, Batugei dropping to one knee so Deaglán could apply the glue and fix the zebra hair in place. Some orcs grew mustaches but, feeling the hair hanging from his lip, Batugei quietly affirmed his preference to go without one.

"Now?" asked Eimear, hovering nearby and holding a lit rushlight in one hand.

"Not yet," whispered Deaglán.

A festive air awaited Batugei on the other side of the gate. The nomads made a sport of tugging on one another's facial hair and being generally high-spirited. However, the group fell silent when Dana cleared her throat as she turned to face them from her platform.

"Welcome to the Khanate," she said in a quietly commanding voice. Then, dramatically pulling a hand free from her robe so she could wag it at the others, she barked, "Now, keep it quiet and hands off the iron!"

There was a final cheer and then Dana shucked off her robes and doffed her awkwardly-plumed hat.

"Now?" repeated Eimear. Deaglán wasn’t even finished nodding when she sprinted forward with visible glee towards the northern flagpole. Shimmying up it, she used the rushlight to ignite the pitch on the rope, as well as several of the decorative rags within reach. Several nomads had to hurry over to steady the structure lest it topple with Eimear still up it.

The hobs held little reverence for gods. But every mansion and courthouse in the Khanate kept a brazier, and in every brazier burned a full flame, day or night. Atop the gates of the capital city stood even larger braziers, their flames taller than even a bayatur. The hobs boasted in their quiet way that those flames were struck from the original Khan's forge, where hobs first used stolen lore to work iron. That forge blazed in Atsusandaro today, or so Batugei had heard.

Unlike the true Iron Gate, the rope, rags, and flagpoles burned swiftly to ash and cinders, all while Eimear watched with rapt attention from the ground nearby.

The highway was crisscrossed with lines of black, some stark, others almost too faint to see. Each one was the sign of another caravan's passage into the core of the Khanate. Batugei smiled and led Sudal a comfortable distance away from the fire, offering a handful of oats to his mount. He then began weaving his punctured banríon carefully into the zebra's mane, a new decoration added amidst the many, colorful beads.

* * *

The sun was migrating from morning to afternoon. Batugei rode Sudal across the unpaved countryside north of the highway, though he made sure the caravan always remained in sight. The crossing ceremony had happened yesterday and ever since, Batugei had felt restless with thoughts. Sudal was restless too: not from the local spirits nipping at him as they did sometimes, but from days spent matching the sedate pace of horse-drawn wagons.

For the good of rider and mount both, Batugei had saddled his zebra and gone for a ride.

Once the caravan reached its destination, they would be conveying dwarves. Dwarven captives even, and Batugei felt a strange tension in his shoulders as the spirits of guilt and excitement tussled within him.

At least these were not orc-held captives, or else his spirits of guilt would have teeth. With the plans made public, Vex had been more willing to discuss what she knew, and Batugei had been eager to ply her for details. These dwarves had been captured in one of the many conflicts smoldering between the Khanate and the disparate dwarven clans neighboring it. Whether they were all from the same place or if they'd been consolidated in their captivity to Kusatsu, Vex didn't know.

Batugei suspected they were from Rust Mountain, especially since the caravan's writ of passage read that they were to travel south out of the Khanate. The iron-rich peak at the southern edge of the Khanate was an infamous battleground; it had been contested for generations between the hobs and those dwarves living within it. Despite neither side gaining a lasting victory, the Khanate was more than willing to pay a yearly tithe of soldiers and violence to keep the iron flowing.

Vex hadn't been interested in speculating, leaving Batugei that evening to spend time with her parchments instead. She'd added only that the ransom negotiations taking place had been ongoing for a decade at least.

Batugei's body moved in time to Sudal's movement, the orc looking more at his thoughts than his surroundings.

A decade held captive. Batugei was no halfling nomad to be driven mad by familiar surroundings, but the thought of it left him uneasy. Ten years would see Radnatani's light green skin losing its color as the woman aged out of her whelping days. Would she still be the passionate and sharp-witted woman he remembered, or would time see that vitality leak out of her like milk from a cracked jug? Sudal would no longer be so spirited, assuming Batugei hadn't lost him to conflict or captivity. Returning home, Batugei would see an entire generation of whelps grown to warriors. Would they remember him as more than a name they'd overheard while they were still suckling?

Movement drew Batugei's eyes north-east, breaking his cheerless line of thought. A hare had startled from cover by Sudal's approach, and fled for the safety of its burrow. For a span of heartbeats the orc considered stringing the short bow he used for hunting and lying in wait for the prey to reemerge from hiding. However, Sudal would dislike loitering, and it was best if they didn't allow the caravan to stray beyond sight.

One glimpse had been enough for Batugei to notice that the hare's winter coat was starting to grow in. The orc cast a glance skyward, studying the thin clouds moving east-to-west. He saw no sign of change, nor any portents. Autumn had been mild thus far but he'd heard that winter could come suddenly in the eastlands, like daibos in the night.

Lowering his gaze from the sky, Batugei was surprised to find the caravan further away than expected. It was the paved road allowing the horses to keep a faster pace. With his knees, he led Sudal into a trot to catch up. 

"Fast for horses. Not fast enough for you," he said affectionately to Sudal, running a hand across the zebra's neck.

The highway was strange to Batugei. He'd seen paved roads before, certainly, but never ones so far outside any town. His people traveled, driving livestock from one seasonal pasture to another, and yet there were no paved roads in the Great Savanna.

Nor were there any between the halfling steads. An individual town might be rich, with roads and buildings of stone, but those only went as far as the town's boundaries. The hobs weren't content with towns or herds or clans. Their Khan ruled an empire so large, he needed roads that stretched to the horizon.

Sudal swiveled his head around and gave Batugei —or rather, the pouch of oats at his northern hip— an inquiring look.

The orc gave an easy chuckle. "Not yet. But when I have cheese and jerky, you will—"

He went silent as he noticed the wagons bunching up. The lead wagon had stopped, and even from a distance Batugei could see nomad messengers running the length of the caravan, spreading some news or order.

He gave a call of 'Kya!', urging Sudal into a gallop as they hurried to rejoin the others.

* * *

Batugei and Sudal arrived in time to join the caravan for an iron inspection, wherein soldiers under the direction of a junior magistrate searched each wagon and individual for illegal possession of contraband. As the name implied, the practice had originally begun as a search of civilians to ensure they had nothing of iron on them. However, the list of contraband had expanded over the centuries, and so the caravan was searched for escaping slaves, banned literature, or any trade goods held in monopoly by various estates.

During Bonnie's recovery in Dahir, Shona had ensured all the caravan's iron equipment had been sold off or traded away. Unlike their trip to Hirata, they weren't exiting the Khanate along the same route they'd entered it, so burying their iron would have been foolish.

It was known that there were two kinds of hob officials: those that would incarcerate you for attempting to bribe them, and those that would threaten you with the same if you didn’t. Knowing which was which was the truest hazard when traversing the Khanate.

Fortunately, Deaglán of Barlow was adept at telling which kind of hob they were dealing with, a consequence, he said, "Of my ma training me up to protect the family's privileges before the local magistrate."

The junior magistrate inspecting everyone's belongings was of the noncorrupt breed. This meant that Batugei and the nomads were dealt with fairly, if brusquely, though the sun was noticeably nearer to the horizon by the time they were cleared to depart.

The caravan traveled swiftly eastward from there until they encamped beside the highway that evening. Batugei went to Bonnie and Vex over dinner to entice them into assisting him with his horse-trading ambitions. Bonnie was only too glad to agree to come, especially after Batugei hinted that she should bring a change of dark clothing. Vex was loudly disinterested until Batugei bribed her with the promise of future writing supplies.

They left after breakfast the following morning, the three crowded onto Sudal: Vex in front at the saddle pommel, Batugei in the middle, and Bonnie in the back, clinging to the cantle.

It was near dusk four days later that they returned. A proud Bonnie sat astride an equally proud pony, with Vex clinging to Sudal's saddle and forswearing riding ever again, and a smiling Batugei leading a pair of draft horses.

Shona swiftly pulled Batugei to the edge of camp for an urgent, whispered exchange, but after that she received the three of them with good cheer. To the gathered nomads, she praised Batugei for his negotiating skills since he'd managed to trade for not one but three healthy beasts of burden.

But Batugei thought it was the fact that Bonnie's black eye went unremarked upon, or that Shona never asked about why a swath of Batugei's beaded hair was missing, that was the biggest endorsement from the caravan master.

Sometimes the loudest praise was said without words.

* * *

The caravan arrived in Kusatsu several days later, each wagon pulled by two or more horses. Bonnie and Batugei rode out front on their pony and zebra, respectively. Their procession made an impressive sight, Batugei thought, and he rode high in the saddle with pride.

He'd gone trading and raiding. In so doing, he'd fed his spirits of guilt, and for now they slumbered. Which meant he rode into Kusatsu with the spirits of excitement heady within him, eager to meet these dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about what went down when Batugei, Bonnie, and Vex 'traded' for those horses, you'll get to find out later. I plan to write that as a side story (a.k.a. omake) a little later.
> 
> The dwarven language, Løfte, is depicted with Danish when overheard by someone who doesn't understand it. The usual translation software caveat applies. If there's anyone reading this who notices an improper translation or word usage and can offer something more accurate, lemme know in the comments or the Discord.
> 
> Crossing ceremonies [were a real thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Line-crossing_ceremony), though usually associated with naval voyages rather than overland ones.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	20. The Heart of the Matter (Realgar's Past)

> _Here's why dwarves don't smile: they got diamonds for teeth! Don't scoff at that; it's frickin' brilliant._
> 
> _How do I know? Here, eat this rock. Yeah, of course you won't; you'd break your teeth trying. But dwarves don't just eat rocks, they eat metal! We make picks out of metal because it's hard enough to actually break stone, so dwarven teeth have to be harder than metal. Nothing is harder than metal 'cept diamonds. Or dragon scales, but dwarves sure as hells ain't dragons._
> 
> _But they're rich like dragons, ain't they? Because they got a mouth that'd put a jewelry merchant's stock to shame! Sure, they dig up all sorts of silver and shit underground, but if they're short on coin they can just take one on the chin and pick up next season's rent from the cobblestones._
> 
> _That's why they're such dour fuckers: if they smiled, they'd have all of Creation out for their chompers. I'm telling you, it's a conspiracy! The dwarves don't want people to know the truth! I mean, they pay ransom for every dwarf, not just the nobles and shit. When they're stacking gold on the table to get back some dwarf who shovels shit for a living, you can't tell me it’s because they missed his glowing personality. No, it's the teeth!_

\- Aziz Boukhalfa of Kusatsu, beggar

* * *

"Hold still, lad," Antimony said, though not unkindly as he retrieved the lancet from his bag. "Just until the second joint and we should be done."

Realgar nodded, trying to show his courage. It was an hour before dawn, but the dark hid nothing from dwarven eyes.

The lancet bit into the side of the middle finger on his left hand. He didn't flinch, but a brief hiss of breath gave him away. Shame welled in his chest.

Slowly at first, and then in a faster flow, the blood streamed out into the bowl held below. To encourage it, Realgar massaged the finger at the base, squeezing gently just above the knuckle and pulling upward. It made the throbbing worse, but the bowl was filling.

Slowly, the tip of his finger changed. Flesh gradually became stone as the animating fluid in his veins escaped. The digit felt numb, cold. If the cut had been to the tip of his finger, the transformation would have sealed the wound. The cut, however, was well-placed, and the bleeding continued, the stone spreading slowly downward.

Copper wafers the size of Realgar's thumbnail went into the bowl. Elder Antimony had a seksten —an eight-sided symbol of the dwarven faith— worn on a chain around his neck and tucked under his shirt. He retrieved it from hiding, bringing it out after glancing in either direction to ensure none were watching.

Antimony’s seksten was a simple thing of stone: an octagonal disc no wider than his fist, with another octagon carved into its face. Other than a single dot in the center and a trio of uncut quartz crystals embedded into the side, it was unadorned: a plain holy symbol for a practical ollam.

The blood stopped, the wound finally petrified shut. The finger wasn't actually any heavier, but it felt like it was. The cut was visible as a thin line in the stone.

The elder dwarf intoned as he waved his hand over the red-strained wafers. "This metal has a lineage that can be traced to the place of our race's forging, Alloyed and Alloyed anew. So too the blood of this dwarf, Realgar Hematite." He hummed, a basso accompaniment as the ritual gestures continued. "Imbue this metal with the animating warmth, Father of Stone."

There was no glow, no radiating heat, no aura of the divine presence. This was the Father of Stone's workings, not some kobold's sorcery. Results were his trade, not showmanship.

Antimony Cunife gestured to the stony digit and gave Realgar a nod of encouragement. “Go ahead, lad. See if you can do the working this time.”

Realgar bobbed his head, suppressing a nervous swallow. He patted the chest of his shirt, then checked one pocket before remembering he’d slipped his seksten into a pouch at his belt. The last time he’d worn it like Antimony, he’d found it trapped under his close-fitting brigandine armor… Not that that’d stopped him from trying to fish it out, all while Galena cackled at his predicament.

Retrieving the symbol of his faith, he drew in a deep breath and stilled his mind so divine inspiration could guide him.

His eyes closed. A low hum rose in his throat. Realgar hummed softly and deeply, the sustained note vibrating in his chest as he waited for the next stage of revelation. While the first note continued as a drone, a second emerged from Realgar's throat. The second note harmonized with the first, and Realgar hadn't realized he was singing it until it reached his ears. Opening his eyes while being guided with a knowledge not his own, the dwarf reached out and slid the face of his seksten across the stony digit. The stone of his finger became pliable, clay-like, and looks of wonder and satisfaction lit up Realgar's face.

With a wipe of a thick thumb, the thin line was smoothed out, gone.

The harmonizing note faded, the drone waning to nothing a few seconds later. Realgar stood there, a little winded but radiating satisfaction. It was the least of miracles, and Antimony could have worked the same in a fraction of the time. But for an apprentice ollam like Realgar, it felt as good as gold and twice as lustrous.

Already the blood was returning, stone slowly giving way to flesh. By the time the site of the cut was exposed once more, the skin was unbroken.

Dwarves knew little of mending flesh, but working stone they knew very well indeed.

Antimony's rough fingers turned Realgar's hand this way and that as he inspected the work, then he gave a grunt of approval. Turning back to his bowl, the copper wafers were removed, the blood wiped free. With a bronze-tipped stylus, Antimony etched 'R' on each. A dwarf could not be sustained by his own warmth; the wafers were useless to Realgar.

The elder slid these into a pouch at his bag, then retrieved from it a wafer of tin with an 'A' etched on the metal's surface. "To make up for what you gave," he said, handing it to the younger dwarf. "Good lad. Now be along. The others will be anxious for your return from the market."

Realgar took it and popped it in his mouth. The metal crunched satisfyingly between his molars. Maybe he imagined it, but his heart felt livelier in his chest, invigorated. He gave the elder a respectful nod and then turned for the gate. Stepping into the light of a torch, he waved at the sentry waiting along the wall, the stone at the tip of his finger fading back to flesh.

* * *

A bulging pack on his back. Two courier bags loaded with goods on either flank, their straps crisscrossing his chest. A large bundle in his arms. Realgar found the weight comforting rather than tiring as he trundled roughly eastward.

It did make crossing from one end of Kusatsu to the other difficult, though. The streets were choked with noisy foot traffic. Realgar pushed through it, wrapped in armor and silence. At least he didn't have to worry about thieves while wearing Akizuki's livery. Realgar's host was minor as nobles went, but he was cozy with the magistrate.

Realgar walked near the gibbets to avoid the thickest of the crowds. Some of the thieves from last time still hung, their sun-bleached husks swaying in the breeze.

Traffic ground to a halt while an orc shepherd drove her flock through an intersection. Realgar muttered into his beard, his eyes darting between the sheep and the direction of the enclave. The flock's progress was slow. With a huff, he set down his bundle and tried to straighten his tunic. The thing was tailored for a human and so fit him poorly: too tight around the torso, neck, and arms, yet so long he'd sheared off six inches or more from the bottom. While his clothing was ill-fitting and threadbare, the metal of his armor shone in the morning light. The brigandine conformed to his frame just so, with nary a scuff or dent.

Realgar was not actually a member of Akizuki's household guard despite what the livery would suggest. However, it marked him as the hob lord's property, and thus permitted him to venture beyond the enclave to other parts of the city. Another convenient magisterial ruling for Akizuki. That the livery fit poorly showed that Realgar's host clutched the purse strings more tightly than most.

Reaching into a pocket, Realgar pulled out a bag of seasoned nuts he'd purchased while in the market. It also contained shavings of copper, lead, and zinc, though he'd added those himself. He retrieved a handful and snacked on it, nut and metal pulverized loudly and inexorably by dwarven molars.

A strain of music interrupted his snacking, and the dwarf looked for the source. On a street corner opposite the ambulatory river of wool, an elven slave performed. The song was unfamiliar. _Mandolin and mutton in ewe-minor_ , he thought while the bleating momentarily drowned out the performance.

When the flock passed, Realgar was quick to pocket his snack, hoist his bundle, and cross. A crowd, mostly children, were gathered around the elf. The slave's handler was a sour-faced human with a mustache like a magistrate, who glared at Realgar, silently judging the dwarf for not parting with any coin.

All dwarves were rich, even the captives... or so the people thought.

Realgar ignored the man as he walked on, weaving and shoving, his thick legs bearing him and his bounty towards Akizuki's holdings. The other dwarves would be anxious for his return, confined as they were to the enclave. 

They were prisoners, one and all, but none had been held captive for more than a few years. Two had only been confined to the enclave for a few months. Realgar had been in Akizuki's holdings for a decade and a half, the majority of his life. It was a sour bargain, but at least the years had bought him this sliver of freedom.

* * *

Of the three guards, only Sikt bothered to look up from their game when Realgar strode forward. The sho-bakemono had been pulled from her usual night watch, and it was clear she was finding the daylight difficult to bear even while hiding under the wide brim of her hat.

"[Reger,]" she said in heavily accented Shitagau. She was at least a foot shorter than Realgar, so all he saw beneath the brim of her jingasa was a toothy grin framed in orange-brown fur.

He gave her a curt nod and walked through the open palisade gates. It was a long walk across the courtyard to the enclave's door, and a longer wait while the seneschal, an officious human named Junto, was fetched to open the way. The enclave was locked, hidden behind walls that stood higher than those that encircled the manor grounds. This fact gave Realgar a perverse kind of pride.

Dwarves were valuable.

"[Keep them quiet,]" Junto hissed, fitting the large key to the lock. "[The magistrate is taking tea with his lordship.]"

Realgar gave a noncommittal grunt, his grip shifting on the bundle in his arms.

Junto pulled the door open and glared at him. "[You are a guest of Akizuki's holdings. It is your host's will,]" he said as forcefully as he could in a loud whisper. "[Do your duty and Keep. Them. Quiet.]"

Realgar knew his strengths, and lying wasn't one of them. Nor, for that matter, was persuading his fellow dwarves. With a face like stone, Realgar walked past Junto, leaving the muttering seneschal behind. The door slid shut and, if Realgar didn’t imagine it, was locked as quietly as its heavy bolt would allow.

He was playing up a stereotype, but the infamous dwarven reticence was just so convenient sometimes. He really wondered how the other races made do without it.

Inside, his first glance went to the smithy. Stibarsen Valleriite was busy, but he was doing detailed work that left the forge and anvil free. Realgar felt a knot in his shoulders relax slightly. He'd have to wait for the magistrate to leave, but the promise of losing himself in his craft later was soothing.

"Hey! No-clan!" called an abrasive voice. Galena Corundum had been loitering in the shade of the wall, her cheeks flushed and an open jug held in her one hand. She staggered into the light and jabbed the stump of her arm in Realgar's direction. "You get my drink?" Some liquid slopped out of the jug as she gesticulated. "I'm almost out of the swill you got me last time."

Her Løfte was so slurred he almost couldn't follow it, though admitting as much would only earn him further abuse.

Though stocky by the standards of the other races, Galena was young, like Realgar, and so narrower in waist and shoulder than the other dwarves. Her eyes were silver flecked with green, and she wore an alcohol-stained gambeson under a shirt of chain. Her hair was brown edging into black, plaited, though the weave in her beard had started to unravel. Whether it was ignorance, indifference, or inability that had stopped the one-handed soldier from fixing that was unclear.

Realgar glowered but set down his bundle and reached for one of his courier bags. Where had he put it? Head down, he smelled her breath before he saw her walk into his peripheral vision.

"Where is it, No-clan? Huh?" she taunted. "Maybe you should be called— called, eh, 'No-brain!'"

She was audibly pleased with this display of wit.

Realgar bit his tongue and found the jug of ale in his pack. He held it out to Galena's stump. "Here. But hold it with both hands or you'll spill it."

The look she gave him could tarnish silver. Galena positioned the old jug in the crook of one arm, then picked up the ale with her hand. She spat and stalked off, her direction wavering a little.

"Realgar," Stibarsen called, hustling over from the smithy. The toolsmith always moved like he was in a hurry, with his vest open in the front and flapping as he went. "Did you make it by Touma's shop?"

Stibarsen had a narrow face and eyes of burnished copper. His hair was a fair brown, thin and prone to curling into loose coils when he stood near the heat of a fire. His beard was darker and split in two, each half secured with a metal clasp that matched his eyes. He wore a tunic, one actually tailored for a dwarf, as well as a vest with numerous pockets. Each pocket held a tool, and they glistened in the morning light as the toolsmith drew closer.

Realgar nodded, once more rummaging through his courier bags. "I did. He sold off the last of the old stock and is haggling with a buyer for the next collection."

"Did you get the—"

Realgar cut him off by holding out a ledger. "Yes, I got the receipts."

Prisoners couldn't have money —they might bribe a guard and escape, or so Junto claimed— but what they earned while captured could go toward their ransom. Captors could earn a lot by ransoming a dwarf back to their clan.

Stibarsen was determined not to remain in the Khanate a minute longer than he had to.

"Touma said—" Realgar pulled a face, dreading this next part. "Touma said that he'd fetch a higher price if you'd add more, uh, ornamentation."

The dwarf raised his face from the ledger, giving Realgar a neutral look. The other races used different numbers to the dwarves, and doing the conversion work in his head distracted Stibarsen from Realgar’s hesitancy. "I can do ornamentation. What did he have in mind?"

"Bronze filigree. Pentagons." Realgar fidgeted with his tunic. "Scales."

Stibarsen's cheeks became a match for Galena's and the toolsmith's breath was coming like the bellows in the forge. "That no-name, clanless, gravel sucker," he started, voice rising in volume as he went, "wants to pass off my craftsmanship as kobold-made?!"

That last part was loud enough to startle a few birds from the trees.

"Yeah!" came a call from the shade of the wall. "No-clan bastards should be gutted and choked with their own entrails." Galena winked at Realgar and raised her jug in mock salute.

Somewhere in the distance, Realgar imagined the seneschal striking the house slaves in his frustration.

Stibarsen continued to rail against the Khanate's inordinate fondness for kobold-wares, egged on by Galena. Such was his indignation that he failed to notice the pair of dwarves walking over.

Coltan Bixbite was round in a way Realgar had never seen in a body before. From ankle to waist, the dwarf extended out as much as he extended up, resulting in a gut that almost went past arm's reach. If he'd ever seen his toes, it was only with the aid of a mirror. Maybe several. He dressed in fine clothing —though the elbows and knees were showing the signs of repeated wear— including a belt with a gem-studded buckle that circled his considerable circumference. His eyes were quick-moving pools like mercury, and his brindle beard draped over his considerable girth like a smith’s apron.

He and Nisil Hafnon were the last two dwarves to arrive in the enclave and Coltan had been captured with his luggage intact.

Realgar already had the bag of uncut gemstones ready. Coltan gave him a friendly nod before untying and withdrawing a few of the contents, his meaty hand retrieving a jewelers' loupe from his vest to inspect them. Like the still-raging Stibarsen, Coltan worked to expedite his ransoming, using Realgar as a proxy to buy uncut gemstones that would be cut, polished, and sold at a profit.

Along the wall a few hob guards peered down, drawn by the ruckus.

"That's enough, Stibarsen," said a resonant voice. "No one is forcing you to add kobold iconography to your wares."

Antimony Cunife, warrior-turned-ollam and now captive elder, wasn't that much taller or broader than the others, but there was something about him that seemed _more_ , like the centuries had compressed a giant into a dwarf's frame. His eyes were the color of verdigris-coated brass, and his black hair was thick like steel wool. He kept his beard in a simple braid ending in a bronze clasp, and he wore rugged clothes under a simple chainmail shirt. He always kept his bag of tools in reach.

Stibarsen went quiet. Everyone listened when Antimony spoke.

"Feh. Let him rail. The only dwarf-craft this lot deserves is an axe through the skull!"

Well, almost everyone.

"Galena, you're drawing the guards again." An edge of warning lurked in Antimony's voice.

She looked up and seemed emboldened by the audience rather than cowed. "Hey, you cherry-stinking hob bastards! We sent your army running when you invaded the Chalk Hills clans!" She shook her stump at them as if it still clutched a weapon. "Your precious Khan's grandson perished in our halls! What do you think of that?!"

Antimony sighed and tugged at his beard. "If they think anything it's, 'What is that drunken idiot yelling about?' They don't speak Løfte."

Galena blinked, then turned back to the sentries. Before she could inflict drunken Shitagau on the ears of those present, Antimony raised a hand to where the seksten rested under his shirt and said in a two-toned voice, _"Don't."_

Galena's words died in her throat.

"Your pride could earn us punishments or fines. Clan before dwarf,” he said. The weight of authority hung heavy in those words. “And until you return to the Chalk Hills, this is your clan." Then, in a softer tone, he said, "You fought. They bled. You bled. You've earned your honor and your name. Go to the shrine and pray for the patience to see it written in the halls of home."

The one-armed soldier opened and closed her mouth before she gave a respectful nod. "Yes, eld—"

There was a shout from beyond the enclave followed by the sound of the heavy lock being opened. For a moment Realgar worried the magistrate had taken offense at the noise and ordered their silence. Such orders usually meant removal of the tongue... if the magistrate was feeling merciful.

The door swung open. Junto and the three guards from the entrance hustled in carrying a litter between them, upon which rested a prone figure. With a grunt, the litter was lowered to the ground.

It was a dwarf. Her clothes were ragged. One arm and half her face were stone.

"[Heal him. Save him. Akizuki orders it,]" huffed the winded seneschal.

Dead dwarves were far less valuable than live ones.

Antimony bulled through the guards to get beside the litter, knocking tiny Sikt flat in the process. Her wide hat rolled like a wheel before tumbling flat several yards away.

"[Dwarves,]" barked Junto. "[Your host-lord commands—]"

"Get them out of here!" Antimony bellowed while he felt for the dwarf's vitals.

Realgar jolted into motion, ushering the seneschal and guards out, helping the half-blinded Sikt retrieve her hat. "[We'll do everything we can to save her. I will pass word to lord Akizuki as soon as we know her condition better.]"

"[Her?]" said one of the guards, who looked at the prone figure in confusion.

Junto, however, ignored that and said, "[You tell me. I tell Lord Akizuki.]"

Realgar nodded dismissively, following the group out of the enclave. "[Now, what happened? Who is she?]"

While the others started talking over one another, he spared a glance back. He saw Stibarsen and Antimony carrying the litter toward one of the low buildings for privacy. The others trailed after. Realgar felt a weight settle in his stomach.

Privacy meant another stone for the shrine.

* * *

"...she's past helping. Once the heart petrifies—"

Conversation ended, and all eyes turned to the entrance as Realgar walked in.

"The enclave is sealed. It’s just us," he said.

The others relaxed, though Galena glared at him for a few seconds longer. They were crowded around a table that held the partially petrified woman, but there was a bubble of space around the elder while he worked.

"Who was she?" asked Nisil.

Before his capture, the dwarf had been a farmer, tending the mushrooms and lichen that recycled a clan's waste. He had done wonders to improve the paltry crop growing in an unlit shack within the enclave. He radiated timidity, making him seem shortest among the assembly despite being taller than most. He had pale hair and a pale beard to match. His iron eyes looked perpetually watery, a symptom of his trade and his ongoing grief.

The Rust River clans were besieged by the Khanate, and his wife was a soldier.

Realgar shook his head. "They don't know. And the slaver who sold her has already left town."

Antimony, meanwhile, was making incisions. Blood ran from the deceased through grooves in the table to a wafer-filled basin below. 

This was a specialized table.

"Where's her gear? That'd tell us, most like," Stibarsen remarked.

"It was lost in the fight that injured her. Dai-bakemono raid, they said," answered Realgar.

Stibarsen's expression soured. "Lost? Stolen, more like. Daibos don't kill for loot. They kill to see you dead. She was injured, and her gear was taken by the slaver when she couldn’t fend him off." He spat. "Damn scavengers."

"Anyone recognize the decorations on the boots?" asked Antimony.

Everyone leaned forward over the slowly petrifying dwarf. Triangles made of lead had been worked into the leather.

"'Asses kicked’ and then there’s a tally,” said Galena, interpreting the markings. She smiled widely. “I like this woman!”

Antimony nodded without looking up from his work. “The triangles are Miner’s Cant, but I don’t recognize the dialect. She can’t be from the north, then.”

Everyone looked at Coltan and Nisil, both from different clans to the south. Nisil shook his head and Coltan remained silent.

“She looks like a Terne,” Galena said, her tone thoughtful. “Knew a Terne. Kicked a lot of ass, Terne did.”

“No holds out due east, what with the Flesh Wastes. Maybe westerly? Red Gorge clan?” offered Coltan, the merchant more widely traveled than most.

“Nepheline family reigns in Red Gorge,” said Antimony. “They’re numerous there, or so I’ve heard.”

There were nods around the table. Antimony was approaching his third century. A dwarf could hear a lot in three hundred years.

There was a moment of quiet as all mourned maybe-Terne Nepheline of possibly-the Red Gorge clan.

Antimony looked up. Realgar started toward the door, but the elder shook his head. “No. I want you to see this.” He turned to Stibarsen and said, “Guard the entrance. You know this well already.”

Stibarsen bobbed his head and stepped quietly outside, closing the door tightly behind him. His shadow was visible as he stood watch, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard.

The elder looked every dwarf present in the eye, a gaze Realgar found difficult to hold. “If any dwarf, name known or not, should fall, you salvage the heartstone. You salvage the heartstone and you keep it a secret from everyone not of the stone. The other races think we drink the blood of the fallen, that we eat their petrified flesh, that dwarven magic can extract gold and silver from the corpse. Lies, and lies you will perpetuate if you must, to keep the secret.”

While the elder spoke, Nisil withdrew a short knife, one he used to slice through the tough stalks of his mushrooms. He used it now to cut away the woman’s shirt, knife rasping against stone flesh once or twice.

Nisil finished and moved clear. With chisel, hum, and incantation, Antimony set to the grim task of parting flesh-as-stone.

Minutes passed. Then the elder stepped back, wiping the grit and powder from his hands. Everyone leaned forward to peer at the cavity that had been gouged into the woman’s chest.

The heartstone was unassuming. To all appearances it was a quartz crystal. Coltan would have thrown such an ordinary stone away as not worth his time. It was no bigger than the last segment of the little finger, which meant Terne hadn’t lived to see her first century.

Dwarves were born stone. Cut properly, the heartstone from an elder like Antimony could be used to make flesh and blood fifty, even a hundred babies. 

With Antimony alone, the hobs weren’t holding an elder ransom. They were holding an entire generation.

“I could cut it into four,” said Coltan, the gemcutter peering inward. His voice was low, reverent even. “Five if the stone grew into either ventricle.”

It was more than he’d get if Realgar or Galena were on that table.

Antimony shook his head. “No. A cut stone might draw attention. I will take it and add it to the others.” He withdrew his holy symbol, its regular, octagonal shape marred by the small crystals partially embedded into it. “I am too valuable to accost, and my seksten appears too cheap to be worth stealing.” With a final incantation, the flesh-as-stone was made soft, and the quartz pulled free, only to be pressed immediately into the amulet among three other such stones.

Galena, Coltan, Nisil, Realgar: each of them was given another long look, as if Antimony could chisel the lesson into their being with his gaze.

Then he sighed and suddenly looked exhausted. Ancient. “If I’m needed, I’ll be at the shrine.” He took the red-filled basin with him, his work not yet done.

Realgar stayed and helped the others. Flesh-as-stone was ground into meal for the mushrooms, to reclaim the minerals within. A small block was cut free to be added to the shrine.

Galena worked alongside him without issue, a rare thing indeed.

* * *

According to Junto, Akizuki was livid at the dwarf’s death, and Realgar’s punishment for failure would be both swift and terrible.

It never came. Realgar had long since learned to ignore most of Junto’s threats masked as Akizuki’s.

Finally the magistrate’s visit concluded, and Realgar was able to lose himself in the ringing of the forge. A new breastplate slowly took shape. It wasn’t for anyone, though Akizuki would find a buyer among the soldiery for it soon enough.

When a Khanate army needed iron equipment, it had to manufacture the goods itself if it didn't want to buy them from another shogun. But the hobs had stolen iron-working from the dwarves; just as everyone knew that dwarves were rich, so too did they know that dwarves worked iron habitually, as though a dwarf would waste away without regular time spent at an anvil.

The iron goods were a source of wealth and prestige for the hob lord. However, it wasn't for the sake of Akizuki's goodwill or expediting his ransom that Realgar smithed. No. One of his clearest memories of his mother was her standing beside a roaring forge, hammer in hand as she shaped recalcitrant metal into wonders of iron and steel.

As the metal sang, Realgar could lose himself in his work and be at her side again, back in the Copper Hills clan, in his mind if not in fact.

Wiping his brow, Realgar pulled the necklace out from beneath his tunic. Six wafers were strung along it: four lead, two copper. He remembered his mother hammering out wafers day and night, all while the ollam bled the other dwarves relentlessly. Their ransom had been paid, but they would not be taking Realgar with them; Akizuki's friendly magistrate had ruled that the ransom contract applied for the adult dwarves only. The nine-year-old Realgar would remain.

Nearby, Stibarsen was tallying in his ledger, no doubt calculating the ransom that remained for him. The tools he’d crafted that day did have bronze filigree and pentagons, Realgar noted. No scales, but Stibarsen would bend more than he'd be willing to admit if it meant getting home sooner.

Galena claimed Realgar’s clan had rejected him when they'd left him behind, hence her taunt of 'no-clan'. But his clansmen had bled for him, his ollam had communed with the Father of Stone on his behalf, and his mother had worked herself to exhaustion providing Alloy enough for her son to survive.

Though at six wafers left...it had been a near thing. He’d saved the last of them after Antimony had been captured in the northern campaign and brought to the enclave. They were a token of the mother and the clan he had been separated from so very many years ago.

The necklace went back into the ill-fitting tunic, and Realgar returned to his work, the breastplate taking shape.

She had made armor, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's the next chapter, you ask. It's still in-progress, I'm sad to say. I have a son in first grade and the pandemic has meant the transition from summer to the fall semester has been an awkward one. Issues there have made it very difficult to write like normal, especially when my day job has gotten busier at the same time. So this week is just the backstory chapter, and it might be a week or two before we see the next chapter(s) go up. But I'm hoping that things will have leveled out and lightened up a bit after that, allowing me to resume my usual volume of output.
> 
> Moving on, in case you're curious, the two-tone chanting Realgar and Antimony do is an example of [overtone singing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overtone_singing). It's as neat as it is distinctive.
> 
> For folks who've read the original Realgar vignette, I wanted to point out some key differences between that and this chapter here. Specifically, Realgar is not nameless and _does_ have memories of his home clan. Additionally, he's an ollam, if an apprentice one, whereas he was merely a smith in the vignette. Furthermore, he's a captive of Akizuki's rather than a legally unprecedented Khanate citizen of sorts. I think Realgar's backstory has undergone the most changes leaving the vignette of any main character even if his personality remains largely unchanged.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments or over in the [Amalgam Discord](https://discord.gg/NTjzKb6). Thanks for reading!


	21. Haitus Announcement

Hello, dear readers.

It's been about two-and-a-half weeks since the last update to Amalgam, and just shy of a month since the last full update. While before I was calling this a delay, it's looking increasingly like the circumstances causing this delay aren't going to be going away particularly soon. While I have managed to get some writing done despite this (about 3.6k words on the next stage of Realgar's backstory chapter), it's been far too little in aggregate. So I'm officially declaring this a [hiatus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hs5j8uUR2nc&feature=youtu.be&t=2) 'til my circumstances become more writing-conducive once more.

However, I'm not going to be shelving Amalgam in the interim. My plan is to use this time to take stock of the narrative thus far, see whether it's on a good track and if there were weak points or missteps along the way, and then plan on how to improve things. Maybe get the tale's geography organized into a proper map to share. Expect updates... just not scheduled ones.

To all of you fine folks who've read this far, thank you. And if you've left comments, thank you doubly. Know that when things get back underway, I'll be deleting this announcement. That means that any comments left in this chapter will go with it, so if you have something story relevant to share, I encourage you to go back to Ch20 and comment there. That includes opinions on the strong or weak aspects of Amalgam that you'd like me to be considering during this bout of housekeeping; I'd be keen to read 'em.

I'm disappointed by these circumstances but I'm not demoralized. The work continues even if it's no longer on a schedule.

'Til next chapter, dear readers.  
-br42


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